


east of eden

by venpast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aquariums, Back to Earth, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Its implied, M/M, Motorcycles, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Voltron Big Bang, both the angst and fluff are heavy lol, hoverbike / hovercraft, lots of space talk, the entire mood is really bittersweet, the humor is in there i swear its not all bad, theyre vices though - unhealthy coping mechanisms that both keith and lance get over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venpast/pseuds/venpast
Summary: “You’ve always bitched about howunfashionableit was to date me. I’m only returning the favor.”With a chuckle, Lance walked forward, “You grew out the mullet, and I fell in love. It’s simple math, pretty boy.”(in which keith takes lance to an aquarium, just to see his blue-lit smile, and lance builds him a hoverbike to see him fly again.)





	1. act i. / oceanus

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this was written for the voltron big bang - i had a ton of fun writing it, so i hope it's well received! 
> 
> this is basically lance and keith being back on earth, learning to get along, cope and make the best of the hand they were dealt. i rough them up a bit, but nothing our boys cant handle ;)
> 
> two amazing artists were paired up with me for this thing - cheers to [@me-li-ae](http://me-li-ae.tumblr.com/) and [@fawnmisty](http://fawnmisty.tumblr.com/)! (awesome people, awesome art)
> 
> see you 30k words under

It was good in the way all things were, that feeling of waking up to dim sunlight and soft blankets, bare skin kept warm in the company of summer. He loved it - lived for it, because it reeked of _home_ and _memories_ and _comfort_ , even with cotton clinging to him as he rolled against flattened pillows. They were afternoons like these, lazy in nature and slow to start, that reminded Lance of how things used to be, a gross nostalgia breaking in every joint as he stretched them, eyes opening to take in the sight of pale curtains dyed orange; being back was quite the feat.

Being back alive and breathing, that was.

He let out a lingering yawn, body arching off the bed, bronze shoulders rolling against white. The jet lag was everlasting, if that could be considered a thing, given how time operated differently in space - leaving mornings dull and evenings lively. Lance couldn’t say he minded it, waking up later in the day with half of it having gone by already; after all, just the sight of the sun sinking into the ocean was one he missed. He had become so accustomed to the darkness of space, that pretty abysmal violet, that even the faintest hint of daylight seemed godly. There was a reason Lance kept the artificial light in the apartment to a bare minimum.

With another stretch and a louder whine, he curled his body off the bed, feet finding the carpeted flooring easily. It was _good_ to be back, even if this wasn’t the room he grew up in. No, it was that transit studio - that shitty little one room, one bathroom aesthetic that he’d ditched in favor of the Garrison dormitories once upon a day, favoring Hunk’s company over his own. Lance wasn’t a man that could live his days alone, having depended on the social to keep his sanity. The room was different now, though, all bare beige walls and empty drawers.

Every poster of space and every star on his wall were taken down and thrown out; there was nothing about them that seemed worth keeping. If anything, Lance was more than ready to set it all aside, to forget that he’d killed men and almost died in the same hell he’d hung on his walls like paintings. There was nothing about stars or space, or suns or moons that made his heart beat faster - nothing about his feet leaving ground appealed to him anymore. When asked, his response was stagnant, _‘nothing compares to the real thing, man!’,_ paired with forged laughter. _I don’t like it anymore. It’s not beautiful._ Though that didn’t seem entirely true either, some days.

It was a guilty sort of feeling when it _did_ come, he admit to himself, a hand running through chopped hair as he walked into the bathroom: that desire and willingness to pretend none of it ever really happened. They were back, after all, they were back and safe and there wasn’t any need to relive all that; there was no need to replay any of the sights or smells, in his opinion. Pretty and gory as they came, they went - and that was the most important part.

But being back, as much as he was relieved by it, had taken a toll on him as well, feeding on his excitement, teeth sunk and painful. It was great, seeing his family again, how they had welcomed him back with tears and tightened embraces—but the world, as much as Lance hated to admit, had moved on without him. His friends had grown into men and women, with their own jokes, their own _cliques_. It was stupid in its own way, this feeling, and suddenly he had felt like the new kid in school. The new kid with the scars he couldn’t explain, and the spacing out he couldn’t snap out of, and the need to balance a cigarette between cut lips.

Lance was a social being, and despite Keith’s reassuring touches, rolling into his back when he tried his best not to show misery, Lance felt like he was the one left out of the loop.

It ate him inside, writhing like vines, climbing into the hollow auditorium of his chest. Keith had come back, _for him,_ and every ache that had Lance lying awake felt unjustified—like he shouldn’t feel the way he felt; like he shouldn’t feel _lonely._ A spaceship with seven people was little—

—but a life with only one other person was even less.

Keith had given up _so much._ It wasn’t something Lance was able to grasp at first— _Keith’s used to living on his own, he doesn’t feel this, what_ I _feel._ Selfish and disgusting.

With the intent to forget, Lance pressed lost lives and missed ones to the back of his mind as he pressed toothpaste onto his brush.

“You’re up.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, the sight of Keith making the corner of his lips quirk. They both looked so much older than Lance remembered, from that classroom and from that initial meeting, eyes lined in the dark kohl of exhaustion, stamped with bags. Keith had let his hair grow out, tucked into the loosest hold at the top of his head, eyes left clear and lid, that scar that lined his jaw faded into his pale skin. Lance ran a tongue over his teeth, letting his eyebrow rise in time with his smile, “Yeah, and pretty early today, too. New records and all that jazz.”

Keith rolled his eyes, a small incredulous chuckle leaving him as he pushed against the frame of the door, “You’re like three minutes earlier this time around.”

Lance grinned, spitting out what remained of the foam in his mouth. “It’s what, four-thirty-something? I’m giving myself a pat on the back.”

With another faint laugh, Keith tucked both of his palms into the billowing sweater that hung off his frame, that typical black that Lance had come to associate with him. He made it work, he supposed, that comfortable look of jumpers and boxers in the middle of August. Lance would never completely understand it, but Keith wasn’t something he would ever really _get_ . “It’s five-forty, loser.”

“Close enough.”

“How is that close,” Keith scoffed, walking forward to stand beside Lance, his socked feet silent against the tile. His head fell against Lance’s shoulder when he was near enough, their eyes held together by the mirror, “you’re more than an hour off.”

“I said close _enough,_ ” Lance’s voice was playfully chastising, trying to get the mood to lighten. It wasn’t that their conversation was especially depressing, but if there was one thing Lance had learnt, it was the ability to read Keith’s moods. Not understanding the man’s habits was one thing, but everything from the unmodulated flats of his tone, to the slow nature of their exchange told Lance that Keith was out of it. It was perhaps the only reason he hated waking up in the evening - it left Keith alone for the majority of the day.

Lance was used to it - to wasting away his days woven into the fabric of his bedsheets; that was his coping mechanism, he slept. He slept and he urged himself to forget about whatever was troubling him, long enough to have dreams of the ocean and of his family and of open smiles. Keith, though, wasn’t like him. It only became obvious when Lance took him by the hand and put them both under the same roof: Keith hardly slept. It had been a running gag when they were living in the castle - how Pidge and Keith must have missed the glory of caffeine.

Now, though, the joke ran void because Lance knew _why_.

Keith couldn’t sleep most nights, no matter how long they both lie in bed waiting for it to happen; one too many times did he fake it to get Lance to give into his own fatigue. With a sigh, Lance rested his own head against that soft black, “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Lance gave him a wry smile, watching how the other’s face fell to apathy. “You’re an awful liar, Kogane.”

Keith let his eyes sharpen, his shoulder sliding against Lance’s in a soft shove, “and you’re remarkably _bad_ at this.”

A laugh made its way into Lance’s throat before he could help it—yes, he was a selfish man. He knew how hard this must have been on all of them, the others included. He understood the type of toll this fucking _odyssey_ had taken on both their minds and bodies, the bruises on their skin that would never fade, the sticky feel of copper red that would never leave. But Lance _couldn’t help it:_ he was alive. He was thankful and glad, and just the sight of Keith by him, alive and _there,_ smelling of the mint tea he must have had and—

Lance was a selfish man.

He let the laugh die when Keith tucked the line of his nose against Lance’s neck. “I wanna go out tonight. Change of pace, change of scene. I’m fucking sick of your couch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Got anywhere in mind?” Lance swallowed, the feel of lashes moving against the dark stubble of his jaw more reassuring than he’d like to admit. “We’ll go wherever you wanna go.”

He felt Keith shift to look up at him, eyes narrowed and calculative, sharp chin digging into his shoulder. The tired but determined glare in grey eyes made Lance look back at him with a bitten lip. _Gods,_ even in his anger and misery, Keith made him _feel._ “I do, actually.”

Lance didn’t laugh, and he didn’t do much other than stand still for a long, drawn moment. When he spoke, it was a little hoarse, “And?”

“And nothing.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

With a languid stretch, Keith leant back, his torso expanding with a yawn. He gave Lance a patronizing pat on the cheek with the back of his hand, before turning to leave. “Let _me_ surprise you, for once, McClain.”

Lance watched him walk out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in hand.

_Oh?  
_

 

* * *

 

Keith had dragged him by the arm the moment he was dressed in a rare moment of excited dedication. It was a subdued sort of excitement, though, that much was obvious in the straight lines of Keith’s expression and the press of his lips - _yes,_ Lance could tell he was looking forward to whatever he’d planned, but there was that rushed nature to the way he dragged them across the parking lot. The evening was fairly pleasant, that wind breaking against the peaks and flats of their features, blowing in that telltale manner that spoke of long nights and pleasant nostalgia. Lance liked it - he liked it a lot.

Wind was different in space; it wasn’t there, for one.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, Lance let his eyes fall closed, savoring the feel of Keith’s hand thread through his own, a tentative hold that was both strong and hesitant all at once. While it was endearing, he had to say, a change of pace from lazy kisses and slow embraces riddled, it told Lance nothing of what Keith was planning. His curious nature hadn’t helped, but he was thankful it was enough to distract him from his own thoughts for a bit.

It reminded him to think of what he had now, regardless of the time that had passed. It reminded him to appreciate the faded red of Keith’s sweater, the freckles dotted across his nape, and that saturated sunset painted over the asphalt of the parking lot. A typical sight - one Lance never thought would take such an emotional toll on him. With a swallow, he felt Keith let go of his palm in favor of reaching out for the motorcycle.

Keith’s bike was an old one, he thought, tracing his eyes over its rusting fenders and mismatched pieces. Motorcycles were difficult to find, and had been out of fashion for god knows how long. Lance remembered when they’d come back and Keith had insisted on pulling out his father’s bike. Lance figured it was laced in sentimental value, some past age that Keith wanted to live in so he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever realities were folded into his days. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to wake up in the middle of the night with Keith nowhere in sight - and it was only in that silence, that Lance learnt the rev of the bike’s ancient engine by heart.

“ _Think fast_ , sharpshooter—”

Keith hadn’t wasted a minute, tossing an old and worn black helmet in his direction, the creases of leather and deep fissured scratches rolling across the once smooth surface. Without thinking twice, Lance’s hands slammed themselves around it, a sharp intake of breath on his lips, the roll of polycarbonate plastic less than an inch from his nose. He lowered his palms, thumb smoothing over the fiberglass visor. He threw a thin glare in Keith’s direction, “If I ever get a misshapen nose, I’m blaming you.”

He got a laugh in response, something he heard occasionally paired with Keith’s faint smile. “Come _on_ , asshole. I want to get there before dark.”

Rolling his eyes, Lance slipped the helmet on with practiced ease. He didn’t move towards the bike, but a smile rolled against his hidden lips, “You know, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you _wanted_ an ugly lover.”

Keith, who had slipped on his own helmet, straddled the leather seat in one fluid motion, directing lidded grey eyes back at him. He leant back, palm against the back of the cowl cover, and it hadn’t taken Lance much to see the smug dip of Keith’s posture. “I settled for you, didn’t I?”

Lance’s eyebrow sharpened to a high, his gape playful, forgotten, faint stubble brushing against fabric of the black helmet. “Ice-cold, _ice-cold_ , baby.”

Keith rolled his head, exaggerated and slow, with a pretty groan. Lance couldn’t help the genuine smile that wove into his features - he knew Keith couldn’t see it, but the creases that blinked by the corners of his eyes were enough of a giveaway. He liked it when they were like this, these moments of affectionate teasing that seemed so few and far between since they came back. Keith was all straight lines and frowns, and even though Lance tried his absolute to break routine, he never could - not unless Keith chose to do it himself.

“Oh please, McClain,” he scoffed, sitting up a little straighter, head cocked with more amusement than usual. _He’s trying,_ Lance thought, a certain warmth pooling at the bottom of his lungs, syrupy sweet and choking, _for me._ “You’ve always bitched about how _unfashionable_ it was to date me. I’m only returning the favor.”

With a chuckle, he walked forward, ignoring the way his chest suddenly felt too full, “You grew out the mullet, and I fell in love. It’s simple math, really.”

Seemingly fed up, Keith leant forward from his position and latched onto Lance’s wrist, tugging him forward and down, their helmets clicking together. It was gentle - more gentle than Keith’s usual frustration - and Lance couldn’t help but watch those grey eyes fall to half-mast. “Let’s go, Romeo. Your charm isn’t going to get us anywhere on time.”

“Shame,” Lance hummed, letting his body slide in behind Keith, the outlines of their bodies locking together in every joint and cotton crease; he let his chin fall onto Keith’s shoulder, “I always liked going nowhere fast.”

 

* * *

 

Keith took the highway like he took everything else in life: without abandon. It was the only thing about him that hadn’t changed with time, and right then, Lance wouldn’t have had it any other way. He leant back, letting his palms find the edge of the seat, the wind tying into their clothes, whistling and rolling against the curve of their helmets. Keith wasn’t the only one who got a rush from this.

It took a while for Lance to get used to the speed, though; piloting a Lion was a lot different than being on a bike. The Blue Lion had been a massive creature, where space and speed were unfelt - but Keith’s bike was different, with its century old design, and its weightless frame. The first time around, Lance thought he was going to bounce right off and end up either dead, or in some sort of comatose. He got told off for it as soon as he voiced that thought - _‘you_ know _I wouldn’t let that happen, right? Where’s your sense of adventure, McClain?’_

It always sucked to have your own words tossed back at you.

Smiling, Lance brought his body forward, opting to wrap his long arms around Keith’s torso, fingers fanning out over the man’s chest. He was glad Keith had talked him into it, because there was something a lot more euphoric, _reckless,_ about riding this thing than piloting. For a couple of people who nearly died on a day to day basis, it was funny to think that riding a bike on the highway gave them more of an adrenalin rush than being in space.

Then again, it was the only thing that made Keith’s frown ease - and maybe that was the reason Lance liked it so much.

“Doing alright back there?” Keith yelled over the wind and through the thick curve of his helmet.

Lance laughed, a loud, tinkling sound, as he tightened his hold around the other’s middle; this was easy. Being with Keith was easy. “As always!”

Keith scoffed out a laugh of his own, short and playful and _rare,_ before Lance heard him rev up the engine. In that same second, his body jolted forward to fold completely over Keith’s back, the bike leaning against gravel. He may have liked it, but Lance figured he’d never get used to how dangerously _left_ the bike could roll, how his visor nearly brushed hot asphalt when Keith took a long turn. Almost subconsciously, Lance tucked both arms in a little tighter, elbows pressing against a narrow waist.

_“You’re going to get us killed!”_

It was Keith’s turn to laugh without abandon, _“Just shut up and trust me!”_

Lance did.

 

* * *

 

Keith asked him to close his eyes fifteen minutes into their ride, and Lance let his mind wander. There was nothing particularly unexpected about the way Keith was acting, given the man’s tendency to be quiet about most things; no, the only thing that baffled Lance then and there was the effort put into a _surprise_ for him. Keith told him on more than one occasion how much he despised being kept in the dark - how much he hated surprises, whether they came in the form of an enemy attack or a Christmas gift. Then and there, though, Keith had planned one for _him._

Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t giddy. And this—

— _this,_ was new.

“Are your eyes closed?” Keith’s voice rung clear over the wind, his body holding still and controlled against Lance’s chest. Actively fighting the desire to complain in response - _come on, don’t you trust me? -_ Lance resorted to blowing a raspberry.

“If I knew you were into this shit,” his voice was low and smug, chin resting onto Keith’s shoulder, as he drew his body even closer, “I would’ve called you out on it sooner.”

Keith hummed, and Lance felt it against his chest before he heard it, “Called me out on what exactly?”

“Your kinky side! All eyes closed and stuff—gonna tie me up later?”

“Sure.” Lance’s eyebrow quirked. The response had been quick and easy, Keith taking his humor in apathetic stride. It wasn’t the first time he did, but it always seemed to hit Lance in the face when he least expected it. Keith cocked his head to the side, knocking his helmet against the other’s, eyes not falling off the road, “Tie you up and throw you into the river. Maybe that way I’ll actually have the bed to myself, for once.”

 _There has to be a catch with you, huh, Kogane?_ _Can’t ever be nice to me._ Lance fell back with an exaggerated groan, hands falling between his knees, latching onto the sides of the seat instead of Keith’s torso.

Despite wanting to tease him a little more, Lance fell silent with a smile. Instead, he focused on the wind that brushed his forearms and the smell of freshness in the air, stark and refreshing in an undoubtedly darkening sky. It wasn’t hard to guess they were getting close to whatever it was Keith had planned, with the bike slowing to take more calculated turns, Keith’s silence both sharp and focused. Lance didn’t mind it, leaning his head backwards, imaging what the sky must have looked like then and there. His curiosity for what Keith was planning, though, outweighed his desire to see it.

Lance wasn’t sure how long it took them after that, but before he knew it, Keith was bringing his bike to a screeching halt, rubber burning against concrete. He held his silence like virtue, the sound of the bike dying down around them, the wind picking up where it had left off on the highway; Lance, ever observant, could call out the emptiness of the place without having to open his eyes. They must have been far out, he figured, if it took them that long to make it - especially with the questionable speeds Keith was going at. With a sigh, Lance leant back, letting his head fall between the dip of his own shoulder blades.

  
“We here?” he asked, his voice held with a calmness that didn’t usually characterize Lance.

  
“Yeah. We are.” Lance grinned at the sound of Keith removing his helmet. It was distinctive, loud with rich profanity and the gentle whip of his fringe, hair undoubtedly tucked high - Lance knew it pretty well. “ _Fuck.”_

  
“You’ve got quite the mouth on ya, darling,” he commented, teasing and low.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Keith didn’t hesitate, sounding preoccupied with the dash and balance of the motorcycle. Lance would have rolled his eyes if they were open, instead opting to remove the helmet and drape his body forward, blindly pressing his lips to where he knew Keith’s bare nape must have been. It wasn’t a kiss—it was this gentle brush that he couldn’t explain, a reassuring habit that they both picked up on over the past few weeks. He knew Keith, and despite the unsmiling note of amusement, Lance could still hear that faint - almost nonexistent - tremor of impatient worry.

_He’s afraid I’m not gonna like it._

Lance held his lips there, and it seemed like forever and a month until Keith shrugged him off. “You can open your eyes now, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

Keith swallowed, a little more audible than before, his body shifting on the seat. With a roll of his torso, Lance felt Keith settle in front of him, their knees open and knocking even though Keith had one foot on the ground, their upper bodies drawn close, helmets cradled tucked into the heat between them. He felt it in the soft breath against his face before he heard Keith speak, “Uh, yeah. Go for it.”

So Lance did, letting his eyes blink themselves open.

Keith was pretty in this light, he decided, meeting the other’s eyes immediately. The moonlight had traced itself into his hair, leaving open curves of silver on rolled up black, following down to the line of his nose and the gentle rise of his lips. There was nothing behind him, haloed instead by an empty parking lot, a void liminal space highlighted by high streetlights and pronounced melancholy. Lance was no idiot, especially when it came to the lines of Keith’s face—he looked nervous, even if it was subtle, his brows peaked, and his lips trembling into a hesitant slant.

Keith looked sad, too.

It was a change from his normal apathy, but Lance wasn’t sure he liked the change. Sure, it might have been worry that Lance didn’t like the surprise—but that didn’t cover the lid of Keith’s eyes, flat and grey and void of fire. He was an apathetic creature on most days ever since they’d crashed into the desert, pods rolling into sand craters.  Pidge argues that, no, Keith was born that way - always emotionally stunted, Hunk says it’s a face he screws on everyday like the lid of a jam jar—but Lance didn’t believe it.

Keith was - _is -_ alive and vibrant in a way none of them were—he had been a hurricane of emotion, unhidden and ungodly and absolutely unapologetic. But shit happens, he guessed, and Keith had gone from storm to dripping tap water. He had simmered down, favoring the flat planes of an empty expression; Lance hated that he couldn’t change it, hated that Keith couldn’t be satisfied with their new life _too._

Swallowing, Lance smiled hesitantly, eyes outlining the tightness of Keith’s mouth. “You alright there?”

“Uh, yeah.” Keith shook his head, as though to shake the expression off as well, laugh breathless and caught, “don’t sweat it.”

Lance’s mouth slanted, unconvinced but willing to let it slide. With an encouraging sigh, deep and expectant, he grinned at the other, setting down the helmet completely between their knees, “So, was your surprise a parking lot? Romantic, but I think we could’ve just hung out at the apartment building’s lot. There are some pretty sexy cars parked there, don’t you think?”

Keith clicked his tongue through the smallest smile, “You’re the absolute worst.”

“Unless that’s some derivative of _best—_ ” Lance snorted, leaning back to fold his arms, wind knotting into his sweat damp hair, “—then you’re wrong, babe.”

“Surprise, surprise, asshole” expression falling into incredulity, Keith scoffed, lips twisted but amused, “it _isn’t_. Thanks, Merriam Webster.”

Lance hummed, smug. “Citing century old-ass dictionaries, you sure know how to get me going—grind my gears, and all tha—”

“Shut _up_ , good goddess,” Keith slapped a gloved palm onto Lance’s mouth, silencing him with disbelieving eyes, “you don’t know when to be quiet, do you?”

Lance didn’t try to respond verbally, instead, he let his smug brows and lid eyes tell Keith all he needed to know. After a couple more seconds of Keith making sure the other wouldn’t continue his line of speech, he let his palm fall with an eye roll. He knocked his knee into Lance’s, “Also, _no._ We’re not here for the fucking car lot, asshole—it’s behind you.”  

Lance didn’t hesitate, letting his body fall backwards onto the seat of the bike, tilted at an angle, head hanging off the back of the leather seat. His hair brushed the fenders as he took in the sight, blinking twice as though to focus better, adjusting the image he saw.

The building was a sight in itself, high and wide, massive in its size—it was a disjointed piece of modern architecture, walls sky bound with reflective alloy and flat glass planes. The lot seemed to pale even more, held against the teal light fixtures that wrapped around the structure, vibrant and lit, coating its own halo onto the concrete. Lance knew this place—he knew this place, he knew this place, he knew this place—

_—aquarium._

His breath caught, and suddenly he couldn’t care less about the silly pose he was in, or Keith’s expectant, nearly impatient hum. _He—brought me to an aquarium._ It hadn’t been any aquarium, though. It was the one he’d taken his siblings too nearly ten years ago when they visited, the one he’d come to for peace of mind when the Garrison got too hectic, when he needed blue water instead of blue emotions. Lance couldn’t take his eyes off the building; they had given it a facelift over the years, sure, but he’d be damned if he didn’t recognize the aging sensors and paring metal.

Keith probably hadn’t known all this when he planned this out, but Lance was willing to pretend he did.

 _“Fuck,”_ he breathed, his body rolling off the bike, mindlessly making sure to set the helmet down in his place.

“Is that, like a _good_ fuck, or—?” Keith added awkwardly in the background, hand finding the back of his neck. Lance almost didn’t hear him, overcome by the wave of nostalgia that broke against the shore of his mind. He never told Keith he liked aquariums, he never told him anything at all past his love for the sea. But the sea was a lot different than this—more wild, unkempt. He didn’t question it, though, because Keith was more observant than people seemed to think.

“A good fuck,” he said finally, before he forgot to respond at all. His boots scraped against the asphalt as he walked forward, trance-like as he looked up, eyes wide and overflowing with reflected light. “ _Shit_ , Keith.”

He was faintly aware of Keith putting their helmets away, getting off the bike himself to jog up to Lance. The comment was offhand, “I’ve never been here before, so this should be interesting.”

Lance hummed, still distracted by the building. “I have.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Weak._ ” Keith blew an annoyed raspberry, a gruff sound following close behind. “Well then, surprise, I guess.”

It got Lance to turn back to him, watching how a childish expression knotted itself between Keith’s brows and the curl of his mouth. It was so typical of the man, almost amusing in the way it made the scar tearing through his eyebrow and the other against the roll of his jaw fade into nothing; it made Keith look younger. Lance smiled, shoving his shoulder against the other’s, “Chill, fam. It was, like, ages ago.”

Keith didn’t seem satisfied, and his expression didn’t change, shifting only slightly. He looked skeptical, studying Lance’s face for traces of disappointment, only Keith wouldn’t find any. He wouldn’t find any because Lance was over the moon, even if his reaction was far more watered down than his personality. Something like this didn’t need loud praise, it needed subtle appreciation.

With that in mind, he smiled bringing a hand up to the back of Keith’s neck to jolt him forward, letting their foreheads thud, “I love it, cheesecake. I would like it a shit-ton more if we actually got to see some fish, though.”

Keith frowned, knocking their heads before drawing back, unconvinced. He started walking towards the entrance, “Well, we will.”

Unaffected, Lance rolled his eyes, watching the back of Keith’s head before following, “I’m guessing we’re breaking in? It’s like, eight—there’s no way they’re still open.”

Keith threw him a look over one shoulder, a dark, seasoned smirk making itself known to his features. “Surprised you felt the need to ask, sweetheart.”

“I would tell you to be yourself always, you know,” Lance returned the grin before Keith turned away again, “but you almost got us killed last time I did.”

“I like flirting with death, after all. What can I say,” he could hear the levity in Keith’s voice without seeing his expression, “she’s a better flirt than you are, sharpshooter.”

“Piss _off,_ Kogane. _”_

 

* * *

  
Lance was thankful that Keith knew what he was doing, because Lance didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. The structure was old in its own right, early modern, leaving them with a limited amount of foot holds—but Keith knew how to scale even that, his body pressed close against the sleek white gold metal, fingers tucked into the space between each of the panels that made up the side of the building. Lance followed, almost blindly, muttering curses every now and then, sated only by Keith’s amusement.

“What happened to adventure?” Keith’s voice came from above him, smug as he continued to move.

Lance aggressively rolled his eyes, even though he knew the other wasn’t looking at him. The night had gotten significantly colder the higher they went, the teal light breaking against his profile much like the wind that pressed into the creases of his clothes. He was all for climbing into space ships, and breaking into prisons—but this was ridiculous; Lance refused to look down, more to keep his sanity than much else.  
  
“Listen, I’m _plenty_ adventurous,” he responded with a smirk, climbing at the same pace without hesitance. It was one of those things that hadn’t changed, he supposed, that fire that consumed his gut, that hearth of challenge. “So, suck it, ‘gainie.”

He didn’t see Keith cringe, but Lance certainly knew the look was there, smacked onto his face. It gave Lance immeasurable satisfaction. “That nickname is the reason I’m going to _let my leg slip_ and kick you right off this building.”

“I love you, pickle-jar.” Lance grinned, pressing a loud kiss into the air.

Keith muttered his response, faint and a little embarrassed, but Lance heard it nonetheless.

It made him smile stupid.

The conversation had died from there as both of them continued to scale in silence, comfortable with where it had left off. Their relationship was an easy one, even if being back wasn’t—calm and genuine, despite the playful comments and the sharp banter that were characteristic of their interactions. It hadn’t taken them very long to reach halfway, Keith sliding his legs onto the folded fire escape with ease. Security dragged the ladder up whenever they locked up, Lance figured, eyes studying the way the it was pressed into the side of the building, too high for anyone to reach, a couple dozen meters into the air; he grinned. _Keith, you smart fucker.  
_  
If the escape was left this damn _airborne_ , the sliding door _must_ have been open, or incredibly easy to disable.  
  
Jumping onto the ledge as well, Lance gathered his bearings as they both stood there, facing one another in the pale, cold light of the building. The space between them was tight—tighter than it had been before—the ledge a small squared surface of metal attached to the ladder and the exit. It was nice, Lance found, to stand there with Keith, smiling as their pants filled the air around them, hot and constant.  
  
And then Keith _laughed_.  
  
Laughed, looking at him with that unguarded look of bliss, despite the shortness of the sound itself. Contagious as it was, Lance didn’t laugh in response, his mind settling for a smile when Keith wrapped his arms affectionately around his torso, pulling Lance into a loose embrace. It was rare for Keith to initiate their contact, rare for him to look so carefree—and Lance knew why he did in that moment, because he felt it too.  
  
The rush.

It was the same rush they had always felt in space, only now without the threat of waking up to an empty bed. Here, they were safe—and Lance _loved_ it. He knew he couldn’t speak for Keith, who thrived on that sense of danger, that sense of rebellion that came with testing fate; Lance pretended the other liked it as much as he did, at least in that moment.  
  
Pulling back from that smell of sweat and sharp aloe vera shampoo, he cupped both his palms around Keith’s neck. The man’s bun had loosened, hair falling around his face, looped at the back, hung low and soft in Lance’s hold. It was whispered into the space between them, “Hi, there, samurai.”  
  
Keith’s smile was calm, almost drowsy, as he leant back against the closed door, “Hey.”  
  
Lance killed what ever distance was left between them, walking forward those two steps to press their bodies, Keith’s chest a furnace in its own right. There was something about that smile though, that gave Lance pause—it was different, and not in the good way. Under that calm lid of Keith’s eyes, he saw a tired sadness. And the worst of it, is that Lance knew he was the one who put it there. On some level, seeing him so relieved about being back, about being _here,_ made Keith feel guilty for not wanting it.  
  
And Lance _hated_ himself for that.  
  
He craned his head with a swallow, eyes following Keith’s split lips, red with chapped fissures and broken lines, his tongue’s flat surface coming out to roll over them, teeth folding over that bruised lower lip afterwards. Lance gave into his desires, leaning to press their lips, mouth tangerine and thin in comparison to Keith’s round magenta. It was short lived, much like it had no movement save a single, firm press that had Keith’s head thunk into the metal. Lance held it for as long as breath allowed.  
  
Keith was the one who shoved at him gently with a low chuckle, words mumbled against Lance’s mouth. “You’re going to kill me, man. I have to _breathe_ in order for this kissing thing to work.”

Lance didn’t talk, leaving his eyes closed, letting his nose line the length of Keith’s own. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Keith shifted, an uncomfortable laugh leaving him, “I’m joking. You usually pick up on this shit. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or anything.”

“Not about the kiss, Keith,” Lance’s voice sounded worn to even him, but he smirked anyway, falling back only a little. His eyes rose to half-mast, “But a death by these shotgun lips? It’s a good way to go, don’t you think?”

“I’m glad you phrased it as a question,” Keith scoffed, and it didn’t take a genius to tell Lance that he was avoiding the elephant in the room. Keith always did, after all—always preferred to ignore their misery, even if it seeped into every movement of both their bodies subconsciously. He ignored how miserable they were, and Lance ignored why they were miserable to begin with. “It gives me the chance to answer: no. It isn’t.”

He turned his body away from Lance to eye the alloyed door, studying the emergency panel that glinted when he touched it. Lance let himself fall a step or two back, allowing Keith the space he needed, choosing not to respond. Instead, he tucked both palms into the back pockets of his jeans, head craned upward, studying the abysmal black-purple of the sky. “What do you like about it?”

Keith hummed in question, too focused to give Lance his full attention. “What do I like, exactly?”

“Space.” _That_ made him pause, just as the door to the aquarium slid open. Lance shook his head before letting it fall, choosing to ignore the questioning frown sewn onto Keith’s face. With a shrug and a practiced smile, he gestured towards the door, “After you, sweetheart.”

With one last concerned curl of the lip, Keith turned around and walked in with Lance close behind. The interior was far more advanced than the exterior of the building, though the blue light followed them inside, running along the sides of the wide, metallic corridor. It was nothing like Lance remembered—not that he really creeped in through the emergency exit before, but it was the feel of it, that technological ring that left him in awe before he actually got to the tanks.

He tilted his head up, tracing the high ceilings, and the glaze of Keith’s hair. The sound of their clicking heels was the only thing rolling off tilted walls of flawlessly reflective alloy. Lance breathed out a low whistle, “Whoa _,_ man. She’s beautiful.”

He heard Keith chuckle, turning to face him as he walked backwards, “are you kidding me? You haven’t even seen the fish yet. I didn’t bring you to stare at walls, you do enough of that back home. You know, stare into nothingness like a sad loner?”

“Please, I’m a social butterfly,” Lance found himself smiling along, despite the pang in his chest - _you noticed that? -_ his feet pacing to catch up, “you’re the one who takes thirty minute showers to contemplate your weird-ass philosophies. If anything? I’m the normal one in this relationship.”

Keith’s smile was small, controlled and practiced, his lips lined with the dim shine of neon lights. His walking slowed when Lance’s body drew nearer, still tracing its way down the hall backwards. Lance couldn’t help it, the chill of the metal and depth of Keith’s voice making him bend down when he was close enough, their faces a breath’s width apart. Keith turned around, the emergency stretch ending in an open angle into one of the dome rooms; he took pleasure in the brief stutter of Lance’s body. “You standards of normal are pretty fucked, then, sweetheart. Skewed and unrealistic.”

Lance would swear by the moon, by the stars and by the rings of Saturn that he had a response—he would promise that it was sharp and smart and riddled with his _iconic_ wit—but words failed him, fallen in sync with the step he took into the room. His body thrummed, burying itself in a garden of gratitude, a blue-lit and wide eyed nirvana that settled in his gut and numbed his tongue.

The room was fucking _majestic._

Lance has seen aquariums. He traced them into his skin from a young age, falling in love with the sound of water and the silence that came with pressing his hand against the glass. They were _his thing,_ but this was entirely different, newer, bluer, and far more intimidating than anything he had ever seen. The room was a large one, curling over them in a transparent halo, one that cradled the majestic mammals that flowed above them—in _flight._ It surrounded them, an encompassing snow-globe of color and claustrophobia.

The light seemed to dim around their bodies, folded into the stillness of the water and the twisting aqua lines that found the seams of their clothes, the peaks of Keith’s face. Lance choked, quite literally, his breath catching in his throat, blood rioting. It was a feeling unlike any other, he found, the glass so well maintained that it left him feeling six-hundred feet under the surface.

Space could never take the ocean from him.

Lance was terrified—and it was a beautiful feeling.

“I take it I did good?” Keith’s voice was a welcome interruption, shattering the sight of coral and fish. Lance turned to him, unable to change his expression, unsure of what his expression even _looked_ like at that point. One glance at him, though, and Keith’s smile widened into a crooked smile, canines dyed a pretty sea-green. “Iconic. The unhinged jaw, I love it. I’m committing that one to memory.”

Lance didn’t even mind the teasing, his mouth stuttering to come up with a coherent response. He couldn’t. Instead, for once in his life, Lance lent an ear to his instinct, allowing it control over the way he moved forward, strides wide and unhesitating. That devotion he felt - flowing into the way his arms reached out, in the way Keith’s eyes widened, in the way their teeth clicked and in the way their lips slotted, unpracticed - ruled him.

The rush of nostalgia, that vintage memory of a young him in his first aquarium, was replaced by the memory of Keith’s kiss. The image of them center a peaceful sea, painting them in shades of blue he didn’t know _existed_ to begin with. His palms tucked themselves neatly against the column of Keith’s neck, the hummingbird heartbeat under his fingers giving him enough courage to press them closer.

It was a dry exchange, a painful press that both of them savored, Keith’s hands coming up to loosely grasp at Lance’s torso, numb gums and aching teeth. When they finally pulled apart, the distance stayed tight—tight enough for breath and cologne to mingle. Their kisses were always this way, Lance realized on some idle level, sharp and swift and _bruising_ in the best way.

Keith was the first to break the silence, fully aware of how Lance’s eyes never left the dip and rise of his lips. He cleared his throat, “Uh, so yeah. Fish?”

Lance’s eyes slid closed, his breathless voice lowered to a whisper. “Shut up, Keith. You’re not allowed to ruin this.”

Keith pushed him away, smiling with that characteristic melancholy, “Whatever. You wanna see the rest or what?”

There was a minute of quiet, where Lance kept his eyes shut. When he opened them, his expression faded into calm, directing that look of absolute appreciation straight at Keith. The reaction was immediate—the uncomfortable smile, tight and artificial. Lance knew his boyfriend well, and he knew how he was about sentimental gestures that weren’t of the raw, physical nature. Keith was bad with emotion—and it gave Lance all the more reason to appreciate _this grand gesture._ _  
_

“I was thinking,” he started, taking a more critical look around, tracing the reception desk that fell at the far end of the dome, and the rounded leather benches that circled the center, “maybe we can stay here for a bit. This looks like the largest of the tanks anyway.”

Keith hummed, taking his own look, before lying down on a couch as though he owned the place. Lance shook his head, a little fond if anything. “I hear they have a shark exhibit, though,” Keith started, turning his head, “We should definitely check it out.”

Lance’s eyes took their time tracing Keith’s silhouette, following where reflective blue met the red folds of his shirt, dying his body a deep lilac. It was distracting how out of place he looked, shoulders stretched in leisure, legs long and crossed—Keith was a torrent all on his own, his existence violent amongst the calm of the dome. Maybe it was because Lance knew him well, knew how those hands balanced the weight of a knife, how those arms flexed and rolled, taut with power. He knew how Keith burned, not like the beading of a wax statue, but like a star’s electric supernova—unconfined and self-destructive.

Kogane looked like a misplaced king, a god of the gas station with his beat up shoes and his scars.

“Of course you’d want to see the sharks,” Lance scoffed, walking his way to the other end of the couch, dropping by Keith’s feet. He crossed one leg under the other, foot cradled in the break under his knee. Looking back at the rise of those knees, and the flatline of Keith’s lips, his mind knotted; a moment of self-deprecation rolled against the back of his teeth, sweet and choking and hard to swallow. The thought was not a unique one, and it had him dancing on the spot where he burned and buried his expectations, for weeks—

_Why’d you let me drag you back—drag you down—literally and figuratively—?_

“Yeah.” Keith hummed, stretching his legs out onto Lance’s lap. “They’re—cool. Unless you don’t want to, then that’s fine, I mean we’re here for you—”

“Hell yeah, man. Sharks are the best.” Lance let his thumb roll again the hill of a pale ankle, an affectionate gesture, his knuckles brushing the black denim rim of Keith’s jeans. “I just wanted to sit for a minute.”

“Anything you want.” The response was immediate.

So was the silence that followed. It was comfortable, chained to the light that lined their profiles and set itself against the floor in waves, tranquil, pacific. With a sigh, Lance looked up, letting himself enjoy the world that broke in color around them, the whale that blanketed them in shadow. It was a pretty creature, he thought, following its slow float and the pale spots that broke against deep skin, its mouth an open stretch, wide in its breadth and even in its flat expanse— _gods,_ Lance swallowed, his body still save the fingers that gently kneaded at Keith’s skin.

He felt small, smaller than the fish painted in yellows and browns and pinks, shading the limpid water, their milky hue held together by the shine of glossy translucence.

It was a different type of small than he felt looking at a planet from afar—no, that had made him feel ungodly surges of fear and power, as though he could unravel the curl of galaxies, make them into a necklace, stars left as pendants branding his skin of his collarbones. This, though, was _different._ These creatures were on the same level as Lance was, but they were larger, smaller, and far more beautiful than he could dream of being.

“So _small._ ”

Lance looked back at the underside of Keith’s jaw, that voice breaking into the reverie he’d created. “The fish? Yeah. They’re incredible.”

“No,” was the reply, lofty and flippant, “the whale.”

“The _whale?”_ Lance asked, voice laced with incredulity, his eyebrows drawn. “I wasn’t aware you were bold and _blind.”_

“Well,” Keith’s shoulders rolled against the leather of the couch, a slow shrug moving his form. “We’ve seen stars supernova, and universes _collapse_ . Whales are small by mean of comparison—tiny enough to swim around in some manmade glass tank. That’s—” he hesitated, and Lance would swear by the gods themselves that he heard a fissure break into Keith’s thick, honeycomb baritone, “—that’s _small_ , Lance, and we’re even _smaller_ .”

He also heard the stuttering breath Keith took after.

“You know,” Lance started, deciding it was best to bring the topic to something softer. He pressed a palm by Keith’s hip, leaning his weight to the side, “when I was a kid, I used to wonder how on earth they could press worlds— _worlds—_ into some tanks and tunnels. It blew my mind, you know? I used to be that one kid who made the glass dirty because I just didn’t want to stop touching it, pointing at shit,” he chuckled, his other hand still kneading into thin skin and bone, “almost got us kicked out a bunch of times. Mama had a few _choice_ words for me, to say the least.”

Keith didn’t speak, but his breath had settled, and so had his eyes, color-stained and staring at the ground beside them.

Lance took it as a sign to continue, “Made me want to be a diver, or a marine biologist, or anything really. Because, like, if they could stuff so much in one dome, there must be so much _more_ out there, right? It makes sense when you’re nine years old, and the only thing that seemed impossible was mental math.”

Although he didn’t smile, there was a lightness to Keith’s voice. “You’re still plenty bad at that.”

Lance laughed through his squawk, making sure to twist Keith’s foot; he took pleasure in the pained chuckle and jolt of the other’s body. “Here I am, pouring my heart out to you and you’re pulling up your shade archive, you piece of shit.”

Keith laughed quietly, too, and this time it was more carefree as he sat up. His legs stayed in Lance’s lap, torso slouching under its own weight, body rested on his palms. Grin dying down, Keith fixed Lance with a fond smile, “Fine. Tell me about yourself and your impeccable math skills, sweetheart.”

Lance rolled his eyes. They were closer now, his body tilted in Keith’s direction, “Whatever.”

Even that gentle look eventually settled, and he stared at Lance with a solemn press of the lips. “Come on. I want to listen.”

It seemed so much more serious than he was used to. They never really talked much about who they were before the Garrison, because that was their only true line of similarity, one that tied them together before they were bound by vigilance. Lance hardly knew anything about Keith that hadn’t been thrown in the air over the years they spent as galactic warriors - _‘shut up, Pidge, it’s a badass title, and that’s what I’m calling us!’ -_ who seldom shared things willingly.

“Uh - yeah, so - marine bio, and all that.” Lance swallowed down his awkwardness, let it simmer into serenity. He looked back at Keith’s mismatched irises, breathing. “I looked _down_ as a kid, never up. I wasn’t like the people at the Garrison, who, like, knew the constellations by heart and could recite the names of all Jupiter’s moons in alphabetical order or some shit by age five. I looked at the ocean because it scared me, Keith—it seemed so much scarier than space at the time, you know? The sky was flat. The sea? It took lives, but it held a world under all that storming and foam. To a kid, who was a little dumb, the sky ended with the horizon, okay? The sun sunk into the sea, and that was that.

“The ocean, though, I _knew_ went on for miles and miles, under and across, and it blew my mind—” he paused, his breath tight, a belt of iron around his voice. Lance let his eyes fall to the slope of Keith’s hips instead of his eyes, “somewhere along the way, though, I learnt that this world was a lot smaller than I thought it was. It crushed me, so I took down all those deep-sea posters, and threw out my snorkel,” the scoff was a sad one, “I decided this world wasn’t enough, wasn’t _big_ enough. But soon enough, I found something even bigger. I found space, and that became the next step up, the next obsession. So, when I was old enough, I hung up all the space posters and badges, I applied for the Garrison. I traded one world for the other. I still don’t know which was the right choice.”

“You miss the sea.”

“Just like you miss the sky.” Lance’s eyes rose, a slow lid to them, meeting determination with his own brand of despondency. “Not that either of us will admit to making the wrong choice.”

_You in coming back, and me in ever leaving._

Keith’s teeth clicked to silence.

“Don’t get me wrong—I fell in love with space, too,” he added, “I _loved_ it, Keith. At the Garrison, despite all the shit I got from Iverson, it felt every bit worth it. Then and there, I wanted to be a pilot more than I had ever wanted to be a diver. But shit happens, okay. Shit like getting tossed into the fucking _abyss_ and having to die for a cause you didn’t know existed to begin with. It was like ‘ _Hello, the Void Is Hiring, and We Choose You!_ ’”

Keith didn’t laugh.  
  
Lance sighed, looking to the side at the school of fish that folded and wove into itself, his profile sharp with the neon that traced it. “I missed my family, and I think that’s a part of it. I’m biased, sure, but I do love the stars. Missing my family made me miss my childhood, Keith, and it made me miss the sea by default.”

“So you regret it.” It was a sharp accusation. Lance heard the hurt before he saw it in the crease of Keith’s eyebrows, “Voltron. You regret it.”

The smile came easy, fond and absolutely in love. For once, Lance didn’t choose his expression; he let it happen. “I don’t regret a single second of it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Then why—” Keith shook his head, breath catching in childish aggravation, “ _why_ all the talk about the ocean when you _know_ you love space as much as I do. That you loved Voltron, and meeting _me._ ”

Lance laughed at that. “Yeah, I worship space. But the whole thing is kind of like your first love, you know? I loved the ocean once, with all my heart. Sure, I moved on, but there’s always a part of me that’ll belong there, even if I love something else now.”

“Then why’d you come back?” the question was quiet, pressed against Keith’s teeth and the sticky-sweet maple depth of his voice.

“Family, for sure,” Lance shrugged, “I missed one too many birthdays, and one too many height notches on the wall. I had to let them know I wasn’t dead.” _Not that it matters._

Keith was silent for a moment, apathetic. It felt like the same silence they shared at three in the morning across the kitchen isle, Keith finding solace in the dark reflection of tar-black coffee, Lance sipping at his cherry-cola in the dim yellow of an aging lamp. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

He didn’t reply—not immediately anyway. “Space was my first love.”  
  
“And I was your _second_ ?” Lance joked, leaning forward to butt their heads together with a gentle, affectionate thud, “weak _."  
_  
“Shut up,” Keith muttered, but there was a shadow of amusement on his lips. “Space was my first. But I’m here, aren’t I?”  
_  
_ _For you.  
_  
Lance’s mouth tucked itself inward between his teeth, his eyebrows worrying. A faint ‘ _fuck’_ escaped him before he tore the distance between them to nothing, pressing their lips _,_ long and drawn, with the smell of sea-salt and cheap cologne knotting into his hair. Simple enough, he supposed, for an action that was meant to convey so much more.  
  
“So,” Keith breathed against the damp roll of his lips, “Shark exhibit sounds _super_ romantic.”

Lance grinned, blue-lit and absolute.


	2. act ii. / atlas

Keith woke up before Lance.

This was just how it was, his eyes refusing the solace of darkness in favor for the sight of their plain off-white curtains, stained through by the sunlight. Unlike Lance, though, Keith’s body got him out of bed at the crack of dawn, sky still diluted with the purple remnants of night. It wasn’t as though he had slept through the night _anyway,_ his restless mind overworking itself through and through, without letting the ache in his bones settle. _Fuck,_ he rolled, blinking away at the sight of Lance, tucked under the covers despite the heat, his skin bronzed over with a faint shadow of sweat.  
  
He’s pretty—he always is when he’s asleep, in that reserved way that purses full lips and brushes away any lines drawn into his skin. Keith figured it was from years of taking care of his skin, because despite the pale razor-sharp scars that ran along Lance’s lips and the arch of a cheekbone, the gentle sheen of his skin was impeccable in the gentle morning light. Keith swallowed, tucking himself closer, their bodies slotted side by side, close enough to smell the left-over cologne that lined Lance’s neck, but far enough not to touch him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Keith always wanted to touch him, wanted to run fingers into brown hair, brush down his lips with a hesitant thumb—but he never did. Instead, Keith savored the moments in the morning when Lance was too far into his REM that he didn’t even twist or turn, when he couldn’t see the way Keith’s eyes lid with unhidden weariness, the way their ugly pattern gave away how much he didn’t want to be there.  
  
_I want to be here. Here with Lance._  
  
There was a difference between those two.

In fact, there was a _stark_ difference between Keith’s desire to be with Lance and his misery being back on Earth. _Compromise_ , is what Shiro had called it, that night before they went their separate ways. He had sat Keith down on the Black Lion’s hind paw, where they would be hidden from sight, and asked him what he was going to do. It wasn’t an easy question to answer, and Keith had felt that bitter heartburn marathon its way between his lungs at the prospect of answering. It was easy to say he loved Lance, and that he would do anything for him—but fulfilling that talk with action was a lot harder than it seemed.

Lance had made it crystal from day one that his family needed him, and Keith respected that. If anything, he thought _Lance_ was the one that needed his family to function. So as he sat there, his eyes tracing between the aging worry between Shiro’s brows, and the deep ebony-violet of space, Keith made a choice.

He chose Lance.

Shiro, though, was little help—with his neutral nod and his thin lips. He was always this way when Keith _needed_ validation. It made Keith feel like any and every choice he made was the wrong one. Lance wasn’t the wrong choice, though, but Shiro wanted him to be happy. Had he chosen to travel the universe, bound only by himself, Shiro would’ve _still_ thrown him some stoic words and philosophical bullshit that made no sense whatsoever even after knowing him for so long.

If Keith had chosen space, Shiro would’ve preached love; when Keith chose Earth, Shiro speechified freedom, responsibility, _commitment_.

It killed Keith a little inside.

He looked back at Lance’s features, delicate despite having seen so much, unlike the raw look that nailed itself permanently into Keith’s eyes. No, Lance was different—he was the warmth of _Earth’s_ sun, the brightness of _that_ star, the very definition of a psychedelic nebula all on his own. The metaphor was exaggerated, even Keith could admit that when the other was asleep. The minute those eyes eventually opened with a smile, though, he would fall into the pit of exaggeration with ease again—because Lance was so beautiful.

But Lance was also very sad.

He didn’t usually let Keith in on those emotions though, choosing to play things off with a smile that hid more secrets than he cared to admit. In turn, Keith let him get away with it, let him believe the fake and fragile domesticity they’d made for themselves was happiness—let him think he’s got Keith fooled. Their beginning was sad, and it was absolute, the way all beginnings are; whether Lance wanted to admit that or not was up to him—if he was even _aware_ of how sad he looked. Keith sighed, knowing that his breath must have brushed the peaks of the other’s face, if the gentle twist of the lips was much to go by.

Lance may have been relieved to be back - _alive,_ he called it, _safe -_ but he was not _happy._  
  
Because Lance got up in the middle of the night to lean over a stained porcelain sink and talk to the mirror. Lance stared into nothingness over the rim of his fifth glass of wine. Lance faced away when he thought Keith was asleep—and even though he made no noise, his shoulders trembled with telltale sobs and insomnia. Maybe it was the nightmares, maybe he missed space, too. Looking at him now, though, body lax with sleep, a single stripe of sunlight drawing long against the landscape of his features, it was impossible to tell.

In reality, Keith had taken him to the aquarium because it had been too long since he’d seen Lance’s satisfied, genuine smile. The last time Lance had smiled at him with raw love and absolute happiness was the minute they had gotten together, yelled over the intercom of their lions— _‘let’s have a fucking love story, okay? Intense—like no one’s ever had, like no one ever thought existed!’—_ even when death had colored the air, when _they_ were about to die.

No, Keith hadn’t _seen_ seen it, but he knew the smile was fucking there; the triumphant laugh had given it away.

“Mornin’”

Keith’s gaze snapped up to Lance, having been staring at the sharpness of his collarbones. He had a single eye open, the other sealed shut by sunlight, lashes a burnt gold, the blue of his iris hollowed out crystal. “Uh, morning. You been up long?”

Lance shook his head, breathing in a small yawn, thin lips stretched, chapped. His voice was deep with sleep, low and hoarse, “You have been, though, I can tell.”

“Yeah.”

Unlike Keith, who seldom initiated contact, Lance easily reached forward and tucked a palm against his cheek, thumb gently brushing over Keith’s lower lashes; it was the discolored eye. Keith shook him off with the guise of rolling onto his back for a leisurely stretch, shoulders pressing divots into the mattress. He could hear the gentle sigh, before he felt it against the side of his neck. “Well, we should _both_ go back to sleep. It’s like six or something.”

 _Seven-thirty-seven,_ Keith silently corrected. Living in the desert had taught him to read the sun, the dyed sky and the minute the clouds fell.

“You’re right, we should.”

“I am.”

Neither made any move to close their eyes, or shift from where they lay. Lance was the first to, though, rolling forward to tuck himself against the stiff line of Keith’s body, his nose cold against a pale neck despite the warmth surrounding them. _Goddess,_ Keith swallowed, eyes widening; the movement hadn’t been sudden, with Lance’s body taking its time to find every angle of his own, a heavy arm resting across his torso and a smooth leg over his thigh. Even so, Keith took in a sharp breath to the feel of Lance’s bare skin, a warm silk expanse, brushing against him over cotton.

After all, unlike _someone,_ Keith didn’t sleep practically nude—‘ _a pair of boxer briefs is not naked, okay?’—_ favoring a tshirt and shorts.

Lance hushed him, “Sleepy time.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he huffed, settling into the embrace with a frown.

“Your thinking is plenty loud, samurai,” Lance’s voice had already begun to slur into relaxation.

Deciding to stay silent, Keith hesitantly wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting his fingers brush the lightly freckled peak of Lance’s shoulder, the skin a little cold with sweat. It seemed good enough an invitation for Lance to press even closer, and Keith didn’t have the heart to push him away. It wasn’t anything poetic—it was just that Keith was about to _die_ from the heat. He breathed out, deep and heavy, eyes tracing the ceiling. _Fucking hell, Lance._

It was pressed into his neck. “Your morning breath is really something.”

Keith rolled his eyes, “I thought you were _sleeping.”_

“Yes, sleeping—” Lance agreed peacefully, his own eyes still closed, “—not isolated in a sensory deprivation tank.”

“You’re so melodramatic, your morning breath probably isn’t all that great either.” Keith muttered, begrudgingly pressing his cheek to the other’s hair.

Lance snorted, pressing a blind smile into his neck, arm tightening around Keith. “Nonsense, my breath always smells like flowers.”

“Yeah,” Keith hummed, “dead, rotting ones.”

At that, Lance chuckled, drawing his arm back to lay a palm center Keith’s chest, pinning him down for long enough to roll on top of him with practiced agility, straddling a tapered waist, leaning down to blow exaggeratedly into Keith’s face. “But you _love me,_ ” he wheezed through an open grin, Keith groaning in an attempt to dislodge him, “you need to _worship_ everything I do, my love—”

“Lance, I’m going to _destroy_ you, so help me goddess—”

“—my heart, _corazón—”_

“—do _not_ throw one of the only three Spanish words you know at me right now—”

“—oh my _god,_ you’re so rude!” Lance’s laugh was that same sweet tinkling sound that saw him throw his head back, eyes closed and neck arched. Keith’s response settled gently on the tip of his tongue, hands folding around that thin waist; the sunlight that had once flit only against Lance’s face, now lined his body, dipping and curving and winding around the roll of lean muscle and scars, settling into his navel and the open angle of his collarbones, bronzed and pronounced and peaked with golden brown. Keith’s silence had depth, even if Lance’s laugh eclipsed it; it had a certain awe to it.

He was always rendered stupid whenever he got the chance to look at Lance.

To _really_ look at Lance, to trace his superficial beauty and match it with the prettiness Keith knew was inside as well.

It didn’t mean the man didn’t have his flaws—because after all these years, Lance was still vain and a little mean. He was loud, and toxic when he found a chance to poke fun at someone for his own amusement. Despite those things, he’d grown so much, and Keith had witnessed it first hand. From arrogant boasts to silent pride, from lid-eyed cruelty to a smiling tease. _He looks happier now,_ ever since the aquarium.  
  
He smiled when Lance came down from his high. It was genuine despite Keith’s mocking tone, “Come on. It’s true, you only know three, ‘ _mami’.”_

 _“Shut up!”_ Lance shrieked through a grin, laughing incredulously, “god, I spoil you and you don’t deserve it. You suck, Keith, _suck_.”

Swallowing whatever melancholy he felt before the exchange, Keith let himself enjoy the moment. He bounced an eyebrow up at Lance, “Yeah, I do. You would know.”

“Wow, smooth,” was the flat-faced response, “Who are you and what have you done with my awkward, greasy boyfriend?”

Keith’s smile dropped into a deadpan as well, his thumbs jabbing Lance’s sides under his hold, “I’m not greasy.”

“Right, whatever,” Lance rolled his eyes, putting both hands over Keith’s, leaning his body down to quickly peck at the other’s lips. They were a quick succession, once, twice, thrice, the fourth lingering a bit between Lance’s smile and Keith’s pout. “Some gross morning kisses,” he laughed.

“Idiot.”

“You’re so _rude_!”

Keith scoffed, leaning up for a quick fifth one before letting his fingers stroke gently over the smooth skin under his fingers. “Are you planning on sleeping, or just numbing the lower-half of my body for the rest of the day?”

Lance hummed, tapping a finger at the corner of his mouth, feigning thought. “I dunno. I feel like annoying you a little more.”

That was enough of a cue for Keith to cup his thighs and throw him off.

Lance didn’t seem to mind, cackling the entire time, form bouncing as Keith sat up. He ran a hand through his fringe, looking over the tan body that stretched itself out against white bedsheets. It didn’t take one sweep of his eyes for Lance to bite a teasing lip, “Like what you see, you fucker?”

“Sure,” Keith muttered, blowing some of his bangs out of his face as he pushed out of bed. He rolled his shoulders, arms winding into the air, muscles lithe and joints distended, clicking into place; he ignored the indignant ‘ _Keith, gross!’_ he got in response, knowing full well Lance hated the sound. “I like what I see most of the time, just not what I _hear._ You’re noisy.”

“And you love me.”

“And I love you,” he agreed easily without turning around, padding around the bed and in the direction of their shitty ensuite bathroom.

Keith may or may not have heard Lance scream into his pillow.  
  
“— _you can’t say that shit so casually!”_

 

* * *

 

_[time-skip]_

 " _Yeah, yeah, of course! No—don’t worry about it, really, I’m—yeah, no—we can do it some other time, seriously. Yeah. Don’t sweat it, man. Family first. Right.”_

Lance’s voice peeled into the walls, folding into Keith’s space. He had been curled up in their bed, a book in hand—something about astrology and zodiacs that he’d picked off of Lance’s shelves. That evening had been a slow one, with both of them silent for the most part, each going about their day with little to no interaction. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, it tended to happen; Keith needed his space, and surprisingly, for someone so people savvy, Lance did as well. In fact, Keith was never really the one initiated these mute days, it was always Lance who made breakfast in silence and threw around one word responses with a glassy look in his eyes.

It was always Lance who turned in on himself at random and refused to tell Keith anything about it.

No, subtlety was not Lance’s finest quality, and while that had once been a joke when they were in space, it really shouldn’t have been. Lance had a chameleon soul, great at putting up _perfectly_ painted porcelain masks. When close enough, though, it was easy to see through them—to see how they had clefts decorating their _perfect_ edges. Lance might not have realized it, but Keith had learnt to tell when those masks fell, and he studied the sound they made when they shattered. Ever since both of them had come back, though, Lance hadn’t changed faces; it was always sad and satisfied.

Sometimes silent and satisfied.

Broken and satisfied.

Lonely and satisfied.

 _Satisfied_.

Keith breathed, letting the yellowed pages bend under the pressure of his thumb, doing his best not to listen in on Lance’s conversation. Instead, he focused on the small lettering, old print smudged where fingers must have pressed down on it, corners folded and curled with age. He focused on the small notes Lance had made on the side once upon a day, his handwriting delicate and small and _happy,_ if Keith could describe writing as happy. Quirky, maybe, with little, irrelevant illustrations of planets and astronauts lining the margins. It wasn’t hard to tell this was definitely before the Garrison—it looked like budding interest.

 _I traded one world for another._  
  
Keith sighed, letting his eyes fall closed. No one ever read books anymore, given that their tablets were more than helpful in that department; the book must have been given to Lance by one of his parents. Pressing it shut, Keith let it drop onto his chest, knowing there was no way he could read after hearing the disappointed tremor in Lance’s voice, even through the walls. With another deep breath, he tucked the book under his pillow before rolling out of bed.

This mute day had to end sometime, and Keith figured now was good enough.

He was not the best at comforting people, but Lance had to have chosen _him_ for a reason. Lance chose Keith for a reason, so it didn’t matter. He padded out of the bedroom with a sense of purpose lining the strength in his shoulders, a hostile confidence that was usually absent in favor of his normally brooding, bad posture. It needed to be there, though, because Keith hadn’t heard Lance sound like that since the aquarium visit—in fact, the man had seemed more at ease, more jovial.

Right then, though, Lance didn’t sound anywhere near happy.

Keith stood in the doorway, letting his eyes fall onto the hunched figure sitting on a barstool, body rolled over the granite of a grey kitchen isle. The smell of dry alcohol hit him before he saw the glass in Lance’s hand, cradled loosely between long fingers and a tipped cigarette. _Vices,_ Keith sighed, visibly frowning at the wide screen of Lance’s phone, lit and abandoned at the foot of an empty whiskey bottle.

“You alright?” it was a stupid question.

Lance’s head cocked to the side, his bare thighs spreading to turn his torso, black fabric of running shorts creasing at the lean bend where leg met hip. Keith watched him tuck his chin into the angle of his elbow, smile wry and tired, eyes hooded with that same intoxicated desolation that Keith saw in his own eyes sometimes. “All depends.”

“On what?”

Lance raised his glass, pushing the full ashtray to the side, “Whether or not we’re out of poison.”

Keith didn’t respond, his jaw stuttering as his gaze took to the ceiling. Nodding slowly in unamused incredulity, he turned on his heel and walked back into the bedroom to the sound of Lance’s head thunking.

_Square one: the drawing board._

 

* * *

 

Despite everything, they didn’t have a love story. There was no kissing before and after battles, no fucking in zero-g, no alien flowers and no romantic gestures. Keith didn’t necessarily care, as long as Lance was safe and by his side, there was little he wanted from space in that department. It was hard, after all, to love while you fought a war. The only problem was that it wasn’t a physical war alone, there was war in both their minds, too. Lance had playfully complained when they got together that they never really acted differently, save some subtle displays of affection.

It hadn’t lasted very long, and soon enough after getting together, Lance fell silent about it.

Keith had been too busy trying to keep them _alive_ to prod him. Sometimes, he let himself regret it, because Lance’s love was way too deep for someone to just swim halfway for him—it wasn’t _fair._ Keith couldn’t help it though, there was little he could do about his own attitude. Keith was difficult, he knew that, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew that in space, the rush and the panic had kept him too alive to settle into the chilled love-laced lifestyle Lance wanted so badly. Now that they were back, Keith’s shift in attitude, one that folded into monotony, took away the fast-paced, americana love Lance _needed._  
  
And it was hard watching Lance make the best of what he got.

Lance never complained to Keith outright, and instead tolerated his mood swings and his sharp tongue, offering him a smile whenever he could. Smoking might have been Lance’s vice, but drinking had been _Keith’s_ when they had first come back. Lance had been there to walk him through it, to hold his hair back, to hide the bottles—and Keith would be damned if he wouldn’t do the same for the other. It was sad, though, because the euphoria of being back had obviously fallen from Lance’s shoulders.

It was fun while it lasted, that first initial _god bless_ and that first kiss he got from his mother, but he could see it fade from Lance’s eyes with time. At first, Keith thought it was all built up fatigue, until he had come home to Lance smoking in their bathtub, offering him a cigarette with a tight smile. Neither of them were stupid, but Keith had a feeling Lance was under the impression that he had him fooled. While he let it pass more often than not, it annoyed him when the other refused to so much _mention_ what they had been through.

Keith tried hard not to be selfish— _so hard—_ yet Lance still wanted to pretend that they were fine, that none of it had happened.

He wanted to disregard the most important chunk of Keith’s life—fighting a war, a war in _space—_ in favor of living in his own head.

Yes, mentally, it seemed that Lance was better off than he was. At least the man _wanted_ to be back, and was willing to face the consequences that came with it. Keith, on the other hand, had been so unprepared for his internal turmoil. He had no idea what he was doing, having already convinced himself there was nothing other than Lance keeping him here. If it wasn’t for his desire to stay by the other’s side, Keith would’ve taken to the skies in a heartbeat.

Not that he’d ever tell Lance that.

He did miss it though, missed being a part of the dark peacefulness of space, that star-scattered expanse. Lance may have loved both the ocean and the sky, but Keith had only ever had the sky. It was the only constant when he’d moved from home to home, the only company when he’d waited for Shiro to come back, and the only solace he had mid-war. Even back on Earth, after so long, Keith found himself staring out of window; he always let his head fall the minute he felt Lance glance at him, though.

Earth gave him nothing but foster care and discipline issues.

 _Lance is here this time around,_ he thought, pulling on the waistline of his jeans, hurried and rough. Maybe that was Keith’s downfall, his weakness: Lance. Maybe his downfall was the minute he’d walked in on Lance crying silently in his castle dormitory; ' _I’ll miss you, so much, samurai'_. He breathed, letting his eyes fall closed as the memory resurfaced—Lance had been so _certain_ that Keith would choose space over their relationship. He had let Lance sob rivers into his chest, and then left him in silence. Self-hate was an awful thing, he figured love was even worse.  

“Get a grip, Kogane,” he shook himself out of quiet, his voice a gravelly whisper, forced from between his teeth as he tugged on a grey shirt and black cotton jacket. He made sure to grab the half-empty bottle of water by his bedside along with a crewneck on his way out of the bedroom. Sure, he hated his life here—that was no secret to either of them, not that he tried hiding it often—but Keith would be damned if Lance ended up the same way.

Stepping back into their living room, Keith took in the sight of the other still hunched over the kitchen isle, head rested in his arms, cigarette burning and unsmoked between his fingers. With sharp strides, Keith paced forward, taking the cancer stick out of the other’s hand with unhidden aggression, throwing it into the abandoned glass of whiskey.

Lance sat up, an indignant whine in his voice, “Hey, man, I was smoking tha—”

Keith pressed the crewneck and the water into Lance’s chest, interrupting the slurring. His voice was flat but decisive, “Get up. We’re going out.”

Lance’s eyes lidded, annoyed, “No _._ ”

Keith bent down to his eye level, a silent snarl curling his mouth, canine borne and sharp and intimidating.  
  
They were _both_ suffering, and the sooner Lance gathered that little piece of information, the sooner they’d be done with this fucking dance. “ _Drink the water, put the sweater on,_ _and get the_ fuck _up_.”

Lance sneered through a smile, reaching blindly for the whiskey, uncaring that a cigarette butt floated along the surface; Keith pushed the glass away with the back of his free hand, not taking his eyes off Lance as he let it slide across the counter with a little too much force. Lance glared, but begrudgingly grasped onto the red fabric, the water bottle cradled between chest and elbow, “Why?”

“I’m sick of you sulking.”

“Rich,” he scoffed, “you always sulk. If I do it once, it suddenly sucks?”

“You were fine ever since we got back from the aquarium last week. Your mood went to shit again, and I’m going to change that.” Keith huffed, reaching forward to help Lance into the jumper when the man’s limbs swayed drunkenly.  

Lance swallowed down a gulp of water after he’d gotten the thing on, eyes focusing as best as they could on Keith, before falling down to the pale fingers that helped tip the plastic. It was more sad than bitter, “You heard me talking on the phone an hour ago, huh?”

“Yeah.” Keith replied honestly, urging Lance to finish the small bottle, before tossing it expertly into the trash. He turned back to the broken looking man, “Fuck them, Lance. Your friends from school are a set of jackasses, anyway.”

Lance’s laugh fell from his lips without humor, eyes finding the hem of red sleeves. “That was my brother who blew me off. That was my brother—” Keith’s wince was slow to rise and slow to fall “—who has a kid now, remember? A fucking _child. Fuck,_ man. Eight years sure does make a ton when it comes to children. _”_  
  
Keith didn’t talk when Lance used him as a crutch to get to his feet.

There wasn’t much to say, anyway.

 

* * *

 

“There’s no way we’re getting on that thing.” Keith huffed, when Lance tried to make his way towards the motorcycle. There was no way in hell he was about to let a man as inebriated as Lance onto his bike, much less trust him to hold on tight enough. “You’re too wasted.”

Lance hummed his disapproval, kicking high-top canvas shoes against the asphalt like a twenty-five year old child. “Then what did you want us to _do,”_ his lip curled, “sit next to it?”

Keith paused for a moment, detached, staring back at Lance with a flat expression. He actually hadn’t had a plan for them. There wasn’t anything he had in mind when he dragged the other out of his misery by the elbow—he just needed to get Lance out of the apartment. Now that he had him out, Keith wasn’t sure what to do. It must have shown on his face, when his eyes fell to Lance’s pretty legs idly.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

Keith’s eyes snapped back up, “I do.”

Lance scoffed, shaking his head, the red sweater a little loose on his shoulders. Despite all those years of training, Keith still had inches of width on Lance, and it showed when it came to their clothing—when it came to their tendency to mix clothes in the laundry. The _intentionality_ of that mistake was negotiable. “You’re full of shit.”

Keith didn’t respond immediately, rolling his eyes, irritated. After a minute of Lance squinting into the sunset, head tilted, as they stood in the saturated glow of the parking lot, he finally spoke. “We’re going for a walk. I know where.”

Lance’s eyes, still a little cloudy, fell back to his, more defeated than he had been a couple moments beforehand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” They were still relatively close to the Garrison, given that Lance’s apartment was only one town over distance wise. If it wasn’t torn down, there was a shitty diner Shiro used to take him to on the weekends where the once pristine-student got weekends off for good behavior; Keith usually snuck out to follow his senior, a little less disciplined. “Yeah, I do.”

There was nothing but relenting trust in Lance’s eyes, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay, then.”

 

* * *

 

The walk was a long one, and Keith didn’t remember that relevant piece of information. Not that it had mattered in the grand scheme of things, save Lance’s interval huffs, throwing Keith pointed, drunk glares. It wasn’t necessarily intimidating, given that he almost tripped a few times when he took his eyes off the road; Keith may or may not have snorted. But this was easy, it was nice, walking around with Lance in that ridiculous get up, the sky falling around them into gradual darkness. If one of them wasn’t completely wasted, and if Keith wasn’t every bit _annoyed as fuck_ about it, he might have considered the whole set up romantic, with the shades of blue and pink and orange that traced their bodies like paint.

Or whatever.

Lance was better at waxing poetic.

Keith sighed, letting his head turn to the stretch of the desert, sand folding into grey instead of yellow, the telltale remnants of sun saturating both the dunes and the landscape of Lance’s sweat-damp features. He was a pretty man, despite the ego that never really quit, and the worst part was that Lance was beautiful when he was sad, too. His eyes always fell into downturned crescents and the rich tangerine of his lips always shone, cracked and bitten and run over by a nervous tongue. Keith felt a little guilty for thinking the man was better calm and sad than irritatingly competitive.

That quality had died down a little, over the years.

Keith glanced down at the way those lean fingers swung, wanting to reach out and grab them—but no, he and Lance were not on some fairytale dinner date; they were walking on the side of a desert highway, praying that the hour walk wasn’t in vain to some bulldozed century-old diner. Thankfully, the road was silent for the most part, riddled in the humidity of summer and the bone deep cold of desert wind.

It was one of the reasons he’d forced Lance into a sweater. Living in the desert had taught Keith a few things about shifting weather.

They were a foot apart, and he could still smell the alcohol on Lance, mixed in with the fruity, mocking tropical coconut of his body wash. Keith couldn’t help the sigh that left him as he looked away again, noting the empty horizon. _Was it always this far?_ It must have been. Maybe the Garrison had been closer to the diner after all, which was shocking given that the Garrison was never close to _anything_. He heard Lance shuffle beside him, huffing as he dug into his pocket.

Keith watched out of the corner of disinterested eyes, noting how hard it was for him to pull out the pack of cigs, how it was even harder to place one between his lips. Lance’s fingers trembled, pressing against his clean shaven chin; Keith felt his blood reach its boiling point, calmness simmering into vexation quicker than the zero-to-sixty on his bike.  
  
_Can you fucking—_ without the tolerance he’d been practicing, Keith reached forward, snatching the pack with more force than need be, before hurling it off the highway. Lance was too stunned to stop him, unlit smoke hanging between his lips.

“Fucking _stop—”_ Keith snapped, his eyes wide and angry and tired, panting, “enough, with all this! Stop it with the pity party, damn it!”

Lance’s expression was caught on a tightrope between hurt and annoyed, cigarette hung between his lips. “What the _fuck,_ Keith!”

“ _What?_ ” it was an acidic dare, despite the fact his tone was a little softer than before. They stopped walking, Lance taking the cigarette out of his mouth, looking away from Keith’s bone-dissolving glare before dropping it to asphalt, “what the hell did I do wrong? You’ve been smoking up a storm, and you fucking stink of it. Enough.”

“I was—” Lance swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek, “I was going to smoke those.”

“Good thing I got rid of them, then.” Keith scoffed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, looking back at him with an unfaltering look of rage. “You need to find an outlet for this shit.”

“Those _are_ my outlet.” Lance snapped back, his eyes pressed with bags, angry. He swallowed and pushed past, their shoulders knocking against each other with a dense, slow thud. Keith’s eyes slid shut; he hadn’t handled that well—not that he ever handled Lance right. Contrary to the general consensus, Lance was not easy to please, and for someone as socially inept as Keith, things were always significantly harder. It wasn’t fair though—he was in no state of mind to comfort someone who chose _this life_ , when he himself was barely keeping it together. Maybe he was selfish—too selfish.

He hadn’t meant to snap, but his temper had gotten so much worse recently. Lance had blamed the heat, but Keith knew better; it was the fact he wanted to spend his days beating his head against the wall out of boredom. Their lives wouldn’t last an eternity, and here they were, both of them, wasting away between four walls. It wasn’t Lance’s fault, either, as much as it would’ve been simple to pin it on him. Keith would’ve gone to hell and back for Shiro, and the man wasn’t blood. Lance _must_ have missed his family with the same undying ache.

The blood of the covenant isn’t always thicker than the water of the womb and all that jazz.

Keith opened his eyes, watching the wingspan of broad shoulders against the backdrop of night, swaying faintly. “Lance.”

The man stopped, but didn’t turn. Keith took it as good enough an opportunity to walk forward and press his nose into the nape of a craned neck. Lance had been patient with him when he needed it, and Keith, despite his own internal shit, needed to be patient for him when the other needed it, too. _Compromise,_ was what Shiro had called it. With a sigh, he wrapped both arms around Lance’s middle.

“I’m pretty selfish, huh, Keith?” It was weak, and made Keith raise his head with a questioning hum. Lance’s voice cracked and pitched, “You’re so fucking _good_ to me and all I do is—”

“Shut the hell up.”

“It’s true though,” this time, he did turn, trying to steady himself by resting both palms on Keith’s shoulders. Keith couldn’t stand the look of self-loathing that was chiseled onto those delicate, scarred features. “You look out for me. Always have. Thanks doesn’t cut it, ya know? Sometimes, I wonder why you haven’t left yet.”

The comment annoyed him, but the logical side of his mind ordered Keith to cool his jets. “You _know_ why.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I do.”

“Good.”

Lance breathed, sad but _satisfied,_ his voice still running with a faint slur given the fact he had just begun sobering up, “You’re the best, the absolute best, okay? Don’t—like, forget it, okay? Promise.”

Keith’s smirk was wry, faintly amused as he let the man wrap both arms around his neck. “Sure.”

Lance frowned, “Like you mean it.”

“I promise.” _A_ _lie._  
  
“Okay.”

Keith wasn’t the best. No one believed that, least of all himself, but he didn’t voice the thought. Instead, he chose to have them lapse into that same silence, with Lance walking a little closer, their shoulders brushing, those bronze fingers gently tracing the inside of Keith’s elbow. It was hard to deal with people when he was still learning how to be completely human himself, so it wasn’t hard to disregard Lance’s statement—in both its positive and negative aspects. The man tended to shower him in praise more often than not, anyway.

He felt Lance’s hand stutter its way in hesitant, choppy drops down to his palm, weaving their fingers together. Lance’s hand was spare and stiff even when loose, all sharp dips and sharper coolness, open angles wheeling under smooth skin, his veins a map of experience tearing across. His hold hung gently, and the softness of it made Keith all the more aware of how clammy his own skin felt. He didn’t hate it enough to think of pulling away, though, and instead allowed their hands to swing between them as they walked. _Kinda like lost teens,_ Keith thought, and for once, it wasn’t sarcastic.

“This is nice,” Lance spoke, calm and in his element even though they’d both just climbed out of a spat. “The walking, I mean. I think I needed this.”

Keith didn’t respond, his eyes catching on a pink neon sign off in the distance, tracing the lines of a name he didn’t remember knowing to begin with. He was passively listening to what Lance was saying, but not enough to give him a coherent sound in reply, opting instead to press a deep set of circles into his skin. Lance was the type, he learnt, that needed physical rather than vocal reassurance, anyway.

_Finally._

It had only taken _an eternity,_ but they were only a couple minutes from where Keith assumed the diner still stood—if the tacky lit-logo was anything to go by. He was a little surprised, feeling like the place was too old and too run down to still exist, set in the middle of god-knows-where. Maybe it still preyed on those who lived in their cars, and the desperate students who snuck _still_ snuck out of the Garrison when their proctors and officers weren’t paying enough attention. Of all people, Keith should know.

“Oh, there’s a restaurant out here?” Lance mused, his feet dragging leisurely against asphalt, filling the air with the sound of rubber against loose pebbles. “That’s a shitty-ass location to open a business, if you ask me.”

Keith couldn’t help the scoff that left him, letting it fade into silent chuckles, fully aware of the way Lance smiled at him for it. “Tell me about it.”

“Nah,” Lance drawled, bumping their shoulders, “you _knew_ it existed, so you’re just as bad as the guy who decided to open a diner in butt-fuck nowhere. Don’t act cooler than him.”

“I _am_ cooler than him.”

“Should I remind you of how _unfashionable_ it is to date you, darling? A diner, Keith, really? Don’t try too hard to woo me, now.”

Keith was laughing at this point, biting his lower lip a little incredulously as he shook his head. “Piss off, I already wooed you enough into dating me. Can’t expect it to continue forever, so you should’ve enjoyed it while it lasted.”

“ _Oh_ , so you don’t disagree that you’re a mess,” he couldn’t help but love the faint drawl that still remained in Lance’s voice; it paired itself nicely with the playful tone and the slow blinking eyes. He pressed a chin onto Keith’s shoulder, looking up at him with that sweet smile. “You’re a _mess_ , baby.”

Lance’s face was conveniently placed, the harsh edge of magenta neons slicing across the already keen delineation of his features; features that could cut through diamond, if pressed against the stone at the right angle. The light had tucked itself nicely beneath his skin, bringing to the surface the saturated hues that swam under, a nocturnal palette of color spelled out in blues and purples, dipping into the geometric depression of his lips and up the peak of his nose.

Even Lance’s _eyes_ \- Keith swallowed, standing feet from the entrance of the diner - looked absolutely electric _,_ a mythic tint to them.

 _Like lightning_ , he wagered, leaning his head down to the side, letting his own face tuck itself into Lance’s, kissing the whiskey on his breath before he was anywhere near kissing his lips. Keith, for all his sobriety, wondered if those lips would taste like paint, or color—like the crushed purple of blackberries, like the neons they were dipped in.

They didn’t.

Because kissing Lance wasn’t about how he _tasted._ It never was. It was about how it felt—the faint pressure that faded into harsh presses and clicking teeth. That kiss - that _experience -_ was no different then and there, in the shadow of the desert, than it was anywhere else. No, it was the same as always, how they found comfort in the way their bodies had learnt to move together, how they folded their loneliness away and shoved it into the bracket of irrelevance.

Lance shifted from Keith’s side to stand in front of him, or maybe it was Keith who had turned to face him, their breaths taken through the nose and stolen from in between parted teeth. _Gods,_ it was easy like this.

Keith was no good at talk, but he figured this was one way he could use his mouth in a way that would help instead of hinder their relationship. His hands found the straight lines of Lance’s waist, feeling those long fingers rise to smooth over his cheeks, tracing transparent graffiti across his lash line. Keith wasn’t sure when he and Lance dropped hands, but it didn’t matter.

They always fell into this exact position, with Lance’s form angled slightly back with Keith chasing forward—whether that was in the dusty parking lot of some seedy road stop, or in the middle of their kitchen. He almost laughed into the kiss, thinking of the first time he’d tried to cup Lance’s face; _‘you’re gonna clog my_ pores, _Kogane—we can’t all live like you, neanderthal!’_

He seemed more than happy to clog Keith’s though, not that either of them cared.

It was Lance who pulled back first, his eyes closed and his body swaying faintly on its axis, fingers fumbling to press blindly against Keith’s lips, keeping him from pushing forward.  

“Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really thirsty.”

Sparing him the joke, Keith cracked a smile and placed a leading palm on the small of his back. _Yeah, in_ _more ways than one, McClain._

They were both messes.

 

* * *

 

The diner was a shitty one. Keith wasn’t sure he remembered it being this dated, didn’t remember the dust that gathered between the sewn presses of leather, tying the booths together under the flickering of century old flickering signs.  
  
Once upon a day, Keith would’ve argued that it was simply styled after a dead-age, playing on anemoia and the little bit of history playing silently on the unlit jukebox in the corner; god knows it probably hasn’t played in forever. Sitting there now, watching Lance’s eyes glance around curiously, Keith had a feeling that this place may have been as old as advertised.

 _Iverson’s grandpa or someshit must have been swinging back then,_ he scoffed silently, hating that he still remembered the man’s name after so long, _of all the things, goddess._  

“Something wrong?” Lance asked, having started seriously sobering up under the vibrant LEDs—one of the only traces of modernity in the whole place. Lance didn’t look bothered by the age of the diner, his eyes a little brighter than they had been earlier that day, brows high, lips rolling and twisting and pursed. It was a look Keith knew well: Lance was interested, taking in their surroundings slowly, enough for the distraction in his voice to make itself known.

Of course he wouldn’t have seen anything like this before.

“Nah,” Keith beat the devil’s tattoo against the digital menu that sat between them, blunt nails composing an irritated staccato. The place was, unsurprisingly, empty save for them, their voices carrying over to the two young waiters who sat on ancient barstools, popping gum and eyeing them with interest. He stared back at them with lidded unfriendliness, feeling slight satisfaction when the male had enough decency to look away. The girl, her hair held up in a complex, stiff looking updo, seemed unaffected, keeping a leg draped over the other under white slacks. Keith figured he might as well be the one to drop his gaze.

It wasn’t like he blamed her—but it bothered him to think of _why_ her eyes studied them so intently.

Logic would reason that the two never saw customers, but Keith knew better. He knew the harsh glow of the diner carved highlights into the white scars mapped along Lance’s legs, he knew his own skin had reached an unreasonable shade of _marble_ for someone who lived in a desert town, translucent and undyed. The restless quaking of Lance’s joints, his knee swaying and his fingers trembling, aching to reach for the cigarettes he didn’t have anymore, Keith’s permanently aloof expression—

They looked like they’d scraped their bodies off of hell’s floor; then again, maybe that’s exactly what they did.

Keith figured he’d forgive the staring.

Curiosity getting the best of her, it seemed, she hopped off of the leather barstool and approached them, shoes clicking on tile. Keith’s automatic response was to glance in the opposite direction taking to the window. _Quite the fucking view,_ his eyes scanned the empty lot.

“So, like, I know there’s a menu, but can I get you something?” Her voice had a certain quality to it, a little low, raspy.

The change in atmosphere was nearly tangible, and Keith didn’t have to turn back to Lance to see the chipper rise in his shoulders and the social smile he probably painted onto his face. “I’ll have a cherry slushy—”

“He’ll have a water,” Keith interrupted, drawling as he turned to look at the girl, his stare half mast. She nodded along, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her slacks, taking note of his demand over Lance’s; Keith eyed him from the corner of his eye, “And a burger. And some fries.”

Lance’s mouth hung itself in a gape, incredulous.

Keith fully ignored him, looking back up at the waitress when she hummed out an expectant sound, tilting her chin in his direction. “And you?”

“Coffee, preferably black, preferably strong.”

She gave a pointed stare at the digital numbers blinking on the wall— _21:42—_ before glancing down at Keith wholly unimpressed. She sighed when he refused to falter, taking her leave. “If you say so, mate.”

As soon as she dragged the other waiter to the back, out of sight and into the kitchen, Lance breathed a low, annoyed, “ _Rude_ , you’re trying to make me fat.”  
  
“I’m trying to make you sober,” Keith monotoned, with far less tact where the volume of his voice was concerned; discretion from him was like blood from a stone.

Lance’s lower lip jutted slightly, his expression falling just short of petulant as he crossed his arms, looking away. “I _am_ sober. Well, pretty much.”

“Not good enough.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”  

Keith allowed himself a gentle smirk at that. Lance seemed to appreciate it enough to give him a small smile of his own, pretty and grateful. He didn’t argue past that, and while he didn’t voice it, Keith was glad for the momentary silence. In a sense, it allowed him enough time to cool down from the volatile high they’d both had that night.  
  
It wasn’t like Keith couldn’t understand why Lance acted the way he did, it was no secret—not physically, at least. His expressions, his actions, his _moods,_ all gave him away. The man thrived on the social interaction he was denied in space, and being back hadn’t helped either. Lance needed to supplement a _human contact quota_ , and the brilliant _Red Paladin_ alone didn’t suffice.

Keith was out of his depth, sinking like sediment.

Lance cleared his throat a couple of minutes after, attempting to break the silence casually, looking out through the window, “So, this is a nice night. Good weather.”

“After all that shit, you’re _small talking?_ ” Keith snorted, involuntary insensitivity tacking itself onto the sound.  
  
At the sight of Lance’s wince, his eyes fell, chest throbbing with something akin to guilt crowding his lungs. Their mood swings were possibly the hardest thing to master—fluctuating with every breath and blink, annoyance turning into affection, and irritation undermining humor. _Goddamn it,_ tapping his nails a little louder, Keith’s frustration begun to shine through, “I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

“It’s—” Lance’s voice seemed to hesitate on every syllable, weak and yielding, “—it’s fine, you’re fine.”

“Fine?”

“ _We’re_ fine.” Lance nodded along , as though he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Keith. His eyes shifted down to his own hands, flexing long fingers into careful knots of telltale discomfort, brows drawn low and braced over his eyes. They were all nervous ticks that were absolutely out of place on Lance’s person. He was a man that radiated confidence in public, even if he forfeit it in private. “We always are.”

 _This isn’t right;_ it never was.

Keith’s stare was calculative, schooled into apathy. “No, Lance, we aren’t.”

It took the man by surprise, his shot expression lifting to stare back. The diner was silent between them, rolling into oceans of it, coasting their gazes. Keith was the first to look away, not because he wasn’t able to hold Lance’s betrayed purse of the lips and narrowed eyes, but because for once, Keith refused to be the one to escalate shit. Part of him hoped that would be the end of it, trying to occupy himself with staring at the jukebox, visibly concentrating on its rounded lines.

Internally, his concentration had never left Lance.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

It was low enough to sound hurt, but pitched enough to tell Keith all he needed to know. _So much for not escalating shit._ He didn’t respond, his head twisted to the side, keeping the jukebox company. This was not how this was meant to go—not that he’d had a plan for it, save cheering Lance up. Though that electric emotion that they’d always had together seemed to fall apart in that instance, and Keith, selfish and self-serving, didn’t want to address it.

“Answer me.” _Ice._

With a deep breath, he turned back to the hostile curl of the lips. Lance looked hurt and livid and terrified all at once, and Keith didn’t think there was a word that encompassed that sort of emotional scope. Steeling the wet concrete that seeped into his lungs, Keith stared back, flat. “Nothing. It means nothing. Drop it.”

“ _Drop_ it?” Lance breathed, eyebrows twitching in incredulity. “You can’t say that and ask me to pretend you didn’t. I’m not going to.”

All his practiced patience seemed to simmer at the statement, and Keith felt himself break under it. “Why?” it may have been flat and unmodulated, but there was no mistaking that underlying hiss of cruel challenge. “You’re so good at pretending everything else never happened.”

Any and every emotion melted right off of Lance’s face, replaced by straight lines and sharp— _sober—_ eyes. There was an unforgiving quality to it. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Keith spoke, razor-edged, his fingers halting over glass. He refused to back down, he’d backed down one too many times, drowning his months and thoughts under shower heads and coffeecup-insomnia. Lance hadn’t once brought up the war, never once had he allowed them to talk things out. Keith was a reserved person, but even he needed release, _reassurance._ It was as good a time as any, he supposed, committing the lines of Lance’s face to memory for the nth time. “Stop acting like you don’t refuse to acknowledge everything we’ve been through, just because you want to pretend you’re _‘happy’—_ ”

“ _I never said I was_ happy _—”_ that was the breaking point, it seemed, Lance’s voice slowing itself into a low and bitten hiss, his body leaning itself over the mapped tabletop, neck craned up at him in lividity. “I’m just not _fighting it._ I’m trying to make the best of what we have. This is how things should be—”

“Stop pretending like this is something we can come back from _—we’re not_ fine, _Lance!”_

Keith had far less tact, far less reserve, his temperament a fragile being that he’d tried to tame over the years. Voice left loud in an unashamed show of aggression, Keith let his own brand of hurt top the sound in the form of pitched syllables and cracked o’s.

Someone cleared their throat above them.

The waitress looked all shades of uncomfortable, but Keith had only given her a brief flick of the eyes, before looking down, hand coming up to rest loosely over the bridge of his nose. His fingers soon fell, eye framed between his index and middle finger. This was the _last_ thing he needed—either of them, he figured.

“Your, uh, order, sir.”

Neither of them responded, Keith having taken to glaring at the menu screen instead. Moving forward she flicked it closed before resting the tray over it, awkwardly taking her leave after Lance’s weak ‘ _thanks.’_  
  
Keith heard him take in a stuttering breath, in an attempt to calm himself. It never really worked, he knew from experience.

Something rolled against his idle forearm, and Keith looked down at a bottle of water, stopping on its side after bumping into his elbow. He glanced up, unamused, at the domesticated hurt on Lance’s face. “Take it. God knows this conversation’s sobered me up plenty.”

Keith ignored it—ignored _him—_ in favor of reaching towards an uncovered cup of coffee. “Sure.”

“That’s it?” Lance scoffed, but the disbelief was there, ringing deep in Keith’s mind as he glanced down at himself, the sepia reflection staring back at him; the trembling surface told him more about how exhausted and sad he was than his mind did. Lance’s voice rippled, “‘ _Sure_ ’? That’s _it?”_

“Is there something you had in mind?” Keith’s eyes flicked up, harsh, “Something in particular you need me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Lance sarcastically bit back. He dropped his hurt for a pointed glare, “There seems to be quite a bit you’ve got on your chest, so correct me if I’m wrong, _sweetheart_. Looks like I’ve been oh-so-cruel to you.”

“Stop being a dick.” Keith snapped.

“You didn’t say ‘Simon says.’”

He slammed his hand against the surface of the table, the dark liquid of his coffee sliding over to taint the white cup; Lance hadn’t so much as blinked. “Can you, for once, _not do this_?”

“Scary, truly.” The patronizing monotone was more terrifying than Keith’s anger. “Simmer down, darling. We’re in public.”

“I hate it when you act like this,” Keith huffed, but his tone had flattened in volume upon demand. “Gods.”

“Oh, sorry. Is there something you had in mind?” he looked up at Lance, hearing his own words tossed back at him. He watched the other pick at his cuticles, “something in particular you need me to do?”

“Point made,” Keith mumbled, feeling stupid and unfair. They got into spats more often than he liked, and it was no longer as simple as a childish rivalry brought over by petty jealousy. This was too deeply rooted for either of them to back down as easily; it was hard when both wanted such different things, after all. The common ground of ‘ _I want him to be happy’_ seemed like enough at the time. Simplicity, Keith learnt, wasn’t always key.

Lance’s shoulders seemed to droop, and although there was still anger there, there was a willingness to relent as well. “We keep doing this.”

“We do.”

“We’re so _happy_ sometimes, Keith,” he sighed, his cheeks rounding. “Why does it always spiral into this shit?”

“Unresolved tension?” Keith shrugged, not looking up from where he ran a thumb up against the warm drink, letting the escaped liquid bead against the pad of his finger. “But yeah, we’re happy. Sure.”

Silence folded between them, and neither made any move to eat or drink.

“You’re not happy.” Lance spoke eventually, his voice more sad than inquisitive. “You—you never really told me, you know? I never thought you wanted to talk about it. I mean,” he hesitated, “I knew you didn’t like it here, but I didn’t know that _I_ was part of the reason.”

“You’re not.” Keith’s eyes met his, sharp and serious and brief, before falling down to the drink again. “You’re not anywhere near being the reason. I just don’t get why we have to pretend like none of it happened. It was important—at least for me. It seemed like the only thing that mattered for the longest time.”

“It was important to me too, Keith.” Lance’s voice was small, “But it’s hard, okay?”

He chose that moment to look up, noting that Lance looked just as tired as he did, his once vibrant eyes dimming down in sobriety. They’d torn each other down to reality, and this was the result. No rolling in bedsheets or making out at midnight could replace how important this moment felt. Keith should’ve been glad, it was what he wanted.

What he wanted instead, in that moment, was to throw up.

Swallowing down the bile scaling his throat, he rolled the coffee between his palms, “I just—I can’t _live_ like this, Lance. I can’t act like all we saw wasn’t real, I can’t _not_ talk about it with the only person who knows exactly what I mean, who’s lived it with me. You forget that we’re not allowed to tell people.”

He saw Lance nod idly out of his peripheral, but he stayed silent.

“It feels like I’m slowly forgetting things, you know?” he started again, refusing to look up, refusing to meet blue eyes. This was the beginning of it, he thought, feeling the roll of the words in his mind, a typhoon of unsorted emotions that he had been more than prepared to mummify eternally. “It feels like a dream, Lance,” his voice sounded low and hysterical even to himself, “I need to know that I’m not sitting in a mental ward somewhere making this shit up in my sleep. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

A cold palm found his own over the cup.

“I know what you mean.” Lance’s voice trembled, only _just_ above a whisper. “There’s a word for it, you know. I just can’t remember. Harsh sounding, long.” He sighed. “Katie told me about it.”

It was at the mention of Pidge, that Keith found his gaze snapping upward, only to find Lance’s trained on their hands. They hadn’t breathed a word of any other Paladin since they’d landed, and the name was both a fond memory and a haunting reminder that they were light years away from any of the others. “They did?”

“Yeah,” Lance swallowed, biting his lips inward, head tilting itself backward to stare at the ceiling. The food remained untouched. “Not recently, if that’s what you’re thinking. They—they spoke to me about it, back when we were a couple years into that mess. I talked to them about how I started forgetting my youngest sibling’s voice. It was a vent session. I wasn’t aware that I’d have bigger problems, at the time.”

“Bigger problems?”

“I almost lost a language, Keith.” Lance’s smile was incredibly bitter. “I almost lost my mother tongue in the process. I need to think a decent while with some sentences. I mean, obviously, I still understand it, and it’s better now—but it’s,” he paused, letting his head fall back down slowly, letting their gazes tie, “it’s _hard_ when your mother greets you for the first time in years, and you can’t think of words, can’t _understand_ her for a split second in that vital moment. I froze up. I responded in English for days, Keith _._ ”

“But I thought—”

“No, it wasn’t on purpose.” Lance was nonchalant about it, “I thought my reunion with her would feel better than _that._ Makes it difficult to talk about space, you know? It’s like I lost too much in the process. Me knowing ‘only three words’ sucks.”

“We had good times , too—and you _know_ I didn’t mean it that way.” Keith huffed, “Besides, you heard me say it before: when I got booted from the Garrison, I lost myself. Voltron was a second chance, and I took it.”

Lance didn’t respond.

Keith insisted, rolling his palm up to take the other’s, “It changed us for better or worse, and maybe I’m biased, but can you blame me? Space was everything to me. _Is_ everything to me. It’s the only thing that’s ever been constant in my life, Lance—the only thing I had. Not family, not language. I can’t just erase it from memory, I can’t not care.”

Lance looked at him, his expression mild, sad; Keith knew he was aching worse beneath it.

“We’re all ruined, with or without space. The difference is that some of us take the rubble of our fucking minds and make something of it—and some of us just, I don’t know, hide under those remains forever.” Keith licked his lips, looking down at their clasped hands. “Shiro taught me that. He taught me that heroes don’t lead happy lives, Lance, because they’ve got everything to lose, but they risk it anyway. They’re sad, they’re _always_ sad.

“We all risked things, we all lost things, and it hurts. Still, we need to own up to it, we need to accept that the collateral was worth the victory, right? I know I had the least to lose. I _know_ that, but I guess it still rings true.” He paused, gaze held onto their palms, too afraid to look Lance in the eye, “I need to talk about space in order to accept that myself.”

“You’re right, always.”

It was so faint, that Keith would’ve missed it if Lance hadn’t given his hand the gentlest press. The words surprised him, made him look up at the melancholy smile that didn’t belong on Lance’s features. “One of these days, Keith Kogane, I’m going to make you feel as happy as you make me feel—and you know what?”

Keith’s eyebrows raised at the controlled but challenging smile he got thrown at him, angled and sure. For a brief moment, he was reminded of a grinning seventeen-year-old clad in a Galaxy Garrison uniform.

“And I’m going to do it _better_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (itty-bitty disclaimer: lance's experience with language is based on my own, but it isn't the same for everyone!)


	3. act iii. / perses

_[time-skip]_

_“And this part’s supposed to stabilize it? Are you sure—wait, I thought I needed to hook it up to the—_ focus, man! _Yeah, yeah, I wrote the numbers down. The first calculation is for the frontal spans, right? Okay—ah, quiznak—the second function’s for the—oh, oh, I get it. Shitcakes, I’mma have to catch ya on the flip-side, think the Keefienatior’s awake and roaming—”_

Lance was up to something.

He was up to something and it was driving Keith absolutely insane and it was all made worse by the fact Lance was just so good at keeping his mouth shut.

It had started off simple enough, with subtle glances over the kitchen table as they both ate ice-cream out of a single tub. Lance had stayed silent, clicking his spoon against Keith’s ever so often, a roll to the corner of his lips, smug and wholly unpleasant for someone who _hated_ secrecy. It was ironic, given that Keith had practically blind sighted him with the aquarium ordeal. The only issue was, this was not something that lasted a day or two—

It lasted weeks.

Weeks that folded into weeks that folded into months of Lance slowly regaining his quick wit at the expense of Keith’s ever-frying patience. He didn’t mind the smiles that seemed to find their way back into their routine without prompting, it meant that Lance was getting better. They were both getting better, and even over all those dinners where mentions of Coran and Hunk and Allura had slowly made their way home, Keith was still on edge.

Space had made its way back, sure, but there was something _else_ there too.

Coffees in the morning, hummed lunches, long dinners, the days rolled and Keith seemed to watch them do it. But while Lance was good at staying quiet intentionally, he was plenty awful at holding his silence _un_ intentionally. Sometimes it happened when Keith was in the shower, the faint sound of a conversation lulling its way into the space between the tiles, and sometimes he would walk in from a drive to the sight of Lance hunched and concentrated, voicing nonsense under tongue. He knew better than to interrupt, but the moment he peered over the rise of Lance’s shoulder, he was greeted with a kiss and a slammed sketchbook.

What chicken scratch he _does_ managed to spot, past fluttering eyelashes and Lance’s cheap seduction tactics, was just that: chicken scratch. Ciphered, and ugly and odd. Keith had an inkling that it might have been written that way on purpose.

Lance was far more intelligent than people gave him credit for, than any of the paladins had, at least at the start—Keith just hated it when those smarts worked against him. He had no doubt that the plan going through was something important, something Lance was obviously working hard to keep under wraps for as long as he could, but it didn’t stop the curiosity from running Keith’s mind through a meat grinder.  
  
There was no way of knowing whether Lance genuinely thought he was being subtle or not, and there was only so much banging on the couch that could distract Keith from the inevitable.

 _Or maybe he’s doing this on purpose,_ Keith thought, sliding a hand through his loose hair, strands long enough to corona his pillow. His gaze held itself vacant against the ceiling, chest thrumming with the heat of Lance’s still-warm body sculpted into his side. _Maybe the asshole knows he drives me crazy._

* * *

  
Keith breathed in the pastel smoke as it rose over the rim of his mug, eyes staring down at a paper cut and forgotten from Lance’s notebook. It was gibberish, as far as he could tell, mathematical nonsense. It was incomplete, and it told him less than nothing. 

 _What in the goddess’ name are you doing, McClain,_ he thought, folding the piece and tucking it into his sleeve when Lance walked in through the door, nose red with cold, smile wide with warmth. Keith prided himself on being the epitome of picture perfect ignorance.

Not that he had to act much.  
  


* * *

 

“I’m thinking of getting a job.”

Keith’s eyes glanced up from his plate, slow and calculative, studying the nervous shift of Lance’s features. He was trying to act casual about it, that much was obvious, fork scraping the cheap china, gaze held on his food rather than Keith. “You know Allura’s got all our costs covered.”

And it was true—ever since they had come back, the princess left them wanting for nothing. Keith didn’t understand exactly how she’d done it, but there was always an excess of money in their accounts that neither of them touched. It seemed wrong, like it was compensation for something worth a lot more than some loose cash in the central. Being in space, almost _dying_ in space, wasn’t weighted on terms this mundane. He did appreciate it though—especially at the start where their mental stability was as fragile as a biscuit dipped in hot tea, and their functioning was in a similar state.

Lance didn’t think like Keith, but he was still surprisingly modest with his spending.

_Who would’ve thought._

“I know, I _know!”_ Lance defended, his shoulders rolling into an anxious shrug. “It just—I don’t know, will give me something to do?”

“Are you seriously that bored?” Keith stared at him, unimpressed and wholly suspicious. Sure, sometimes the days were longer than they needed to be, but Lance was never the person that sought out extra heartache for kicks. _There’s something else there,_ he thought, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

Lance’s smile was shaky, hopeful and completely false. By the looks of it, Lance was also well aware he looked unconvincing. “Uh, yes?”

“Lance.” Keith deadpanned.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” he started again, this time on a more defensive note, falling back in his seat with arms folded. The winter evening left it dark in the small apartment, the yellow-lit fixture above them swinging ever so often, breaking its light against the blue of Lance’s zip-up jacket. It had been a while since he’d worn the color, and even though Keith’s annoyance was budding once more, he couldn’t help but appreciate how well the color trailed tan hands and winter-bruised knuckles. “You have your bike, and you go out all the damn time. I want that, too!”

“You want a bike that’s over a century old?”

It was Lance’s turn to hit him with a practiced pokerface, " _Really_ , Keith?”

Keith cracked a smile at that, “Okay, fine. I’ll be serious.”

“Can’t believe I’m the person who had to tell you to keep it real, freak.”

“Always there for me, aren’t you, clown?”

Lance huffed a laugh, even though Keith could still see the remnants of frustration on the edges of his expression. They fell into quiet again, both finding the rim of their plates. It was an easy silence, though, Lance’s breathing the only sound breaking the halo of peacefulness. It was endearing, how cold blooded Lance had turned out to be—his tips always arctic, and his body always robbing the warmth from their bedsheets. Keith didn’t mind the huffs of air that kept Lance warm, and everything that came with them, though. After all, his body a furnace in its own right, one that more often than not _created_ the warmth Lance stole.

“You know,” Keith started, pushing around what was left of his food, “if you really want one, I’m not going to argue against it.”

Lance looked up, a little startled, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Keith nodded, stoic. “I’ll respect and support whatever you decide you want to do, and if you’re bored and you want to get out, I’m not going to guilt you into hanging around here. You said it yourself, I’m out a lot of the time ‘cause I can’t stand it. If I can’t stand it, then why should you?”

A beat of silence strained between them, before Lance smiled at him. Keith didn’t see it, per se, but Lance was transparent when his guard was down, and the involuntary fondness he probably wasn’t aware of seeped into his voice. “You’re a good guy, Keith.”

Keith nudged a piece of meat to the edge of cheap porcelain, “Not really.”

He was selfish—and selfish men do what selfish men do best: they think about outcomes in terms of _me._ Keith couldn’t help but wonder how much longer the days would end up being if Lance actually got the job—how the nights would fall even quieter because he’d be too tired to stay up with Keith. There was a bit of budding envy in there as well. _What if Lance is able to move on, and I’m still right at the start?_

At the start: stock full of kitchen-counter nights, bad dreams and bitter insomnia.

_What if he heals and I don’t?_

_Will you still want me then, Lance?_

“You’re doing it again.”

Keith blinked down at the hand that covered his own, his palm wrapped around the fork incorrectly, as though it was a blade not cutlery. He looked up at Lance, noting the sad smile on his face, “What?”

“Spacing out? Yeah, you’re spacing out. And you’ve got that frowny face on that always makes me worry.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Lance’s hold made him drop the utensil, and instead, thread their fingers together. “You _are_ a good person whether you want to believe it or not. And you know what? Soon enough, you’ll see. I’ll make you.”

Keith took his hand away, falling back in his seat with a long drawn sigh, heavy in the way it held finality, ending the conversation. He pressed the plate loosely from him with the tips of his fingers, head tipping itself to stare at the ceiling. The meal had been a good one—most meals Lance made were—but Keith was too full of thought to stomach any more of it. Lance’s ankle seemed to find his under the round table, a reassuring brush that saw Keith close his eyes. “So, McClain, what do you have in mind? Gas station, coffee shop? Hit me with your cliches.”

He didn’t see it, but Keith was pretty sure Lance started grinning.

 

* * *

 

Lance _did_ get a job, or at least that’s what he claimed.

It wasn’t that Keith didn’t trust Lance or anything—hardly, but there were certain things the other did that left him with question marks floating over his head. It hadn’t helped that the times Keith attempted confronting him, he ended up with more questions than before and little to no proper responses. After all, there were only so many jobs out there that involved the hours Lance worked—dusk to dawn to the middle of the night, and sometimes not at all. They were not casual hours and they definitely didn’t match any of the excuses Lance cooked up, as though he thought he’d successfully pulled wool over Keith’s eyes.

Lance missed meals, skipped out on their drives and made up shit excuses for passing out at random hours, after coming home with the smell of cyanide and engine grease clinging to him like an aura.

Keith supposed he should’ve been thankful—the liquor bottles were gone, and the cigarettes nowhere to be found—but he wondered which was better: a world where he spent nights alone in a cold bed, or the ones where he soothed Lance’s turmoil. The thought was selfish, but the prospect of the world taking the only person he had left from him, left Keith in a state of numb stoicism, head thrown over the arm of their couch, screen and sound playing in the darkness.

It didn’t help that all of Lance’s notebooks had thinned into air as well, gone the minute their owner was.

Lance was as boisterous as he used to be years ago, when he wasn’t worn down and filthy, talking about everything and nothing, lacking all consistency. His Jacks became Johns, his Miriams changed to Marthas—and not a single co-workers’ supposed backstory held true and congruent three days after being told. Keith didn’t even _know_ what it was Lance was claiming to do.

It had been _weeks._

 _He’s good at that, isn’t he?_ Keith thought bitterly, staring at the screen with flat eyes and a distinct lack of focus, the remote lax in between his fingers, arm hung off the couch. _He’s so good at stuffing all his sentences with fluff, so good at intentionally confusing people._

_Circles. He’s going in circles._

_Don’t you trust me, Lance?_

It hurt, on some level, Keith would admit only in the comfort of his own mind. He had always kept a close watch on his heart, always cautious with what emotions he threw around, especially if they stemmed deeper than the shallows of anger or frustration. Lance had been the first after Shiro that Keith confided in, trusted with his life and the torrents of emotion that kept him sane. There hadn’t been anyone before him, and there certainly wouldn’t be anyone after him. Keith would love Lance until the sun rose from the west and the sky broke above them.

Even then, Keith ventured, he’d probably still love him.

It was a terrifying, beautiful set of feelings. It was almost as though Lance had thrown him in the deep to watch him drown—and Keith had enjoyed every moment of it; that was love. It was never butterflies in his stomach, but a late night cabaret that kept him sick and drunk and _still smiling,_ one that beat him bloody and kissed him blind at the end of the night _._

Keith blinked, slow and lidded, a far off part of his mind wondering how late Lance would be tonight. The apartment was cold without him, and Keith blamed the winter rather than the lack of company.

_I have nowhere else but you._

He needed to clear his mind, and with one swift roll, Keith took himself off the couch. The apartment was spartan for the most part, with only touches of Lance’s domesticity here and there, coming into to play in the form of picture frames and threadbare sneakers. Keith didn’t pay it much heed when he saw them a year ago, and at that moment, he didn’t care either. All he needed was a shower and some melatonin in his system; the ultimate knockout recipe for sad minds. With agile steps, Keith walked into their bedroom, the moquette’s warmth seeping into his socks.

For someone as mentally and physically drained as he was, it was surprising he didn’t sway on his feet all that much. Maybe it was years of training that drilled him to the peak of balance and flexibility—or maybe it was his sheer will to get this fucking day over with. It wasn’t like he’d done much other than go for a drive, grab himself a soda on the way home, and exile himself to a dark living room and a dusty couch that hadn’t been touched in eight years.

The ensuite bathroom was much like the rest of the apartment, raw and bare of everything but the necessities. The sleek countertop held only a modest amount of products—a number that seemed to gradually increase with the improvement of Lance’s mood—and the basic convenience store shampoo Keith bought for himself. Aloe vera and the cheap scented soap were enough to sate him, despite Lance’s occasional bitching. With a sigh, he pulled off his sweater, tossing it onto the floor along with everything else he wore.

He looked exhausted, and the mirror told him as much, painting watercolor insomnia into the hollow around his eyes. He hadn’t looked this bad in a while, but even so, he really didn’t have the heart to complain to Lance about it.

 _Was I always this pale?_ he thought, fingers coming up to retrace the marble color of his cheek before running along the scar on his jaw. He probably was—years without sun was bound to do that to a person. Keith pointedly ignored everything else about his body, from tears to contour to tangible exhaustion.

He never really gave a shit about how he looked, and he never really felt the need to impress anyone with it. The socially acceptable aesthetic could shove it as far as he was concerned, _that_ at least hadn’t changed over time.

That didn’t stop his palm from finding the base of Lance’s hair clipper.

Keith always had long hair, at least as far back as he could recall. He remembered it falling into his eyes as a child, tucking it into a high bun for school, snipping it shorter for the Garrison—but never in his life had he considered something different. It was how he looked, who he was, even though _that_ particular identity seemed to come and go in a fluctuating mess of space and time and emotion.

 There was a certain liberty, though, when he watched himself in the mirror, pressing the blunt edge to his nape and buzzing upward. Strands of hair, longer than he’d ever left them, haloed his feet. He didn’t go any further than midway, rolling over his ears and down his sideburns, the hair at the top left long and untouched, glossy with natural oils.  

Keith didn’t sweep the ground, and he didn’t look in the mirror after setting the clipper down.

Stepping into the shower with one hand braced against the tile, Keith didn’t waste time fiddling with the touchpad, dragging the toggle to the left entirely. He needed something, ironically enough, to shock his system out of numbness, and cold seemed like the perfect catalyst for thought. Yes, he wanted to fall asleep a minute after he stepped out, and the freezing water would make him even more comfortable in warm sheets.

Or maybe it was the pleasant feeling of _feeling_ for a change.

The haircut would do that—it had to. It was the perfect _adieu_ to an age he needed to set aside. _I need to grow up_ .

Without a gradual climb, the shower head beamed open, and Keith let the water smite his skin. He didn’t wince when the peaks of his shoulders became pricked with red from impact, and he barely moved when the cold wove into his hair. Instead, he let himself drown in it, in the dim white gold light of the bathroom, head hung and body loose and eyes flat. It was a little hard to breathe, the water carving paths down his features, tucking itself into the finely sculpted depressions of his back before plaiting in open circles down his calves. Tilting his head up towards the water, Keith let it brush his fringe away and beat against his shut eyelids.

_I miss him._

Keith didn’t even care what it was Lance was doing, his curiosity having died the minute he realized this thing was keeping them apart. He wanted it to be over, or better yet, he didn’t care about that either. Even if it took Lance years, Keith would respect his desire to stay quiet as long as he _got to see him in exchange._ Whatever it was Lance was doing, it seemed more important than Keith’s company.

Keith didn’t think he’d ever admit, not even to himself, how much that stung.

The water was an easy way out of focus as much as an easy way in, and sooner rather than later, he found himself more focused on the sound of beads beating against the ground than he was on his own thoughts. It was easy to block things out, take them out of both vision and periphery of the mental and physical senses. The shower lashed his body, unyielding in little needles of stinging cold, and Keith decided to focus on that instead. He zeroed his attention on how his toes felt against tile, hailing the sound of every individual thread of water leaving the nozzle, the smell of shampoos, the gentle purring of the heater—

—and the sound of a sliding lock.

_Lance._

Keith’s eyes opened, slow. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. Lance would soon discard his bag, change out of his clothes—never a _uniform_ —and throw himself into bed without a single fucking ounce of grace. Keith wasn’t his housewife who’d meet him at the door, and Lance was the type who stole a kiss anyway. He didn’t know whether the other would bother staying up until Keith was done with his shower or not, in order to badger him for late affection, a cheap currency of pet names and necking.

It was when the bathroom door clicked open, did Keith’s entire body coil with tension.

He wasn’t given much of a warning before long, waterlogged sleeves wound themselves tightly around his waist, whirling his body to face Lance’s exceptionally evergreen grin. It was crescent fresh and equally white, the grease rolling off his features in fine, crooked lines—watered down ink that made home in every cavity of his face. To say Keith was startled would have been an understatement, the stink of cyanide thick in the air between them, like poison in honey.

Honey, because there Lance stood—in all his clothed glory, from jacket to jeans to mid-tops—sopping wet under the spray.

Poison, because Keith didn’t have the slightest clue _what was happening,_ his jaw stuttering with poorly hidden confusion _._

“ _What the_ fuck _, Lan—”_

Lance pulled him in.

Their mouths met in a swift pull of strength, off central target, damp with water and the breath Lance strung through his nose. It was an almost painful exchange, their teeth pressing to numbness, Keith’s air terse and flattened against the high rise of a copper cheek, his gums stained with the taste of pomegranate gum and coffee.  
  
_Gods,_ his mind hailed nothing save the feel of Lance’s chest against his own, the cold buttons of his utility jacket branding the skin of Keith’s collarbones, pressing sharp edges and the sharp promise of proximity into him. There was no explanation given, and he didn’t need one to knot both hands into the fringes of patched and re-patched green fabric, forcing Lance’s body into his, leaning forward and up and _closer_ to that smell of charcoal and cologne.

It had been way too long for Keith to give a single fuck about how the texture of Lance’s damp jeans burnt his thighs, or how his hair fell back into his eyes, or how they both had the undying tendency to magnify the other’s flaws. Everything from pulling away and falling closer, undeserved forgiveness, to anger and secrecy—it drove Keith rogue with hysteria, and yet this felt right. It didn’t feel like they hadn’t had a decent conversation in weeks, it didn’t feel like they had fallen apart for _months._

All Lance had to do was hold him captive in a kiss, and Keith would swear he found god in the space between his teeth.  

Two hands cupped his sides, tucking him into the long lines of Lance’s body, and Keith wasted no time in stowing his fingers up into short strands of cocoa bean hair, his nose drawing one painful divot into the side of a tan cheek. _Fuck. Fuck this—_ his arms were vines, rolling up around Lance’s head, down his neck, palms pressing against the span of his chest and begging to touch the sun in his face. Keith didn’t remember closing his eyes, but he remembered opening them to the sight of Lance’s breathless smile and the sound of his equally taken laughter.

“ _It’s done,_ baby. I’m done.”

Keith didn’t understand it, but he hailed relief and sunk his head into the break of Lance’s damp throat.

 

* * *

 

Lance had barely waited for him to get dressed after that. He threw a pair of lycra pants at Keith, a sweater and boots—individually thrown in a way that, if he wasn’t trained as well as he was, would’ve hit Keith in the head. There was no patience in the gesture, and no patience to be found in the corner of Lance’s smile or the way he sped through words.  
  
Keith was his own brand of confusion, slow reception, just moving along with whatever it was Lance had him put on. He didn’t have time to appreciate how warm the apartment had become, even with the late winter chill that threatened to seep in.

Keith didn’t even get the chance to ask Lance what was happening, numb focus rooting him on the spot.

Lance rambled on and on, not bothering to change out of his wet clothes before wrapping a set of cold fingers around his wrist. _You’re going to catch a cold_ , Keith watched tangerine lips curve and curl like bubblegum on the forefinger, blinked at the wild and nearly unhinged look in Lance’s eyes. Excitement was an understatement, it seemed, and all Keith could really do was stare at his profile as they neared the apartment door, slipping his hand fully into Lance’s without a single word registering.

It was different from the coffee table silence they were so used to propping their feet against, vibrant and _alive_ by mean of comparison. Good thing, too, because Keith had begun to feel like he was slowly dying underneath his own skin.

Lance’s palm was warmer than the weather outside, sky moonless, crowning the side of their apartment building and the back of Lance’s head. Keith didn’t have the mind to call it beautiful, but he would’ve had it been any other day, the air around them painful in its own right, fresh and piercing. It was quite the change from the stale warmth of their bedroom, and even in the muted lights of a silent parking lot, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way this time, the cold felt nice on his skin.

The lot seemed to witness more of their relationship than any other place, and as always, it fell empty. The apartment building was small, only a couple floors high and a couple apartments wide, most of which were emptied out years ago. Keith figured the Garrison must have moved or closed down, leaving the area empty and liminal.

But the space, he realized, was exactly what Lance had been depending on.

After all—it only served to highlight the massive hidden structure sitting center asphalt, a patched fabric tracing the lost outline. High at its precipice, with loose depressions here and there, the bulk molded itself into an unrecognizable set of pleats and smudges, contour vague and unchallenged by the darkness around it. Keith felt his eyebrows knot, his expression the picture perfect image of a man of kilter.

_What in quiznak—_

“—so like, I know what you’re thinking!” Lance’s voice broke the silence in Keith’s mind. There was no silence around them, though, given that Lance’s mouth had been running itself a mile a minute ever since they stepped out of the apartment. Keith didn’t mind it, but when Lance left his side to stand by the anatomically warped shape, he felt his worry deepen.  
  
There was a desperation in blue eyes, a fear, that charred any sense of relief Keith might have had—because there Lance stood, dripping with lukewarm shower water, clad in denim and anorak, brows trembling and breath terse, looking like he stood at the sharp edge of the world.

Keith wrapped two arms around himself, his boots left unlaced and his hair still heavy and waterlogged. The wind brushed the round of his short nape, and the discomfort increased tenfold—he’d almost forgotten the lack of weight he had on his head. It hardly mattered when he had other things to worry about—like Lance’s thinning sanity. Keith’s voice was clipped, “And what am I thinking?”

“That I’m going crazy, but—”

“Actually,” Keith forced a tight-lipped smile, “I’m mainly thinking you’re about to get pneumonia.”

 Lance’s voice held itself breathless, his talking finally catching up with him, leaving him out of breath. “Fair, fair—”

“—and that you’ve completely fucking lost it, too.”

Lance fell uncharacteristically still at the sharp, genuine nature of the response. Swallowing, Keith watched him bite both lips inward, noting in his chest the dark swell, bruised and thoroughly pressed from their time in the shower. Lance drew in a shaky breath, and it was at this point, that it was obvious he was running on adrenaline and the smell of gasoline, numb to the harsh winter. His laugh trembled, “I’m gonna get on with this before I lose the balls to do it.”

“This is the reason you’ve been gone?”

Lance nodded, mute, his eyes hollowed out crystals of electric worry.

Keith closed his eyes, breathing in steady huffs, grey breaths plaiting into the chilled night air.  
  
“Alright, okay, fine.”

“Fine?”  
  
Letting his gaze settle open on Lance with a gentle smile, he gestured to the heap reassuringly, “Let’s see what you’ve got, love.”

The sheer amount of energy that syringed itself into Lance’s form was pretty much unimaginable, his once hopeless posture rising with excitement, mouth reaching its peak speed again in a zero-to-sixty set to rival any damn spacecraft.

“So, like, yeah!” Lance circled the structure, as if not knowing where to really start with, which edge of the fabric to cling too, which to leave in place, “It’s been—well, we’ve been here forever, yeah? On ground, on land, on Earth, whatever, you name it—and like, you think it totally sucks, right? I know you think it sucks, so like, I got an idea—” Lance tapped his temple, fingers flying to mimic the mock explosion he made with his mouth, “ _—bam_ ! Hit me when I was looking at the stars one night when we were driving—remember that day? Damn, the ice-cream at that one place was good. We need to go there more often, you know? I’ll even treat you and everyth—”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith chuckled, voice loose with incredulity, “you’re rambling. It’s cold and I really want to take you inside before you die.”

“Yeah, yeah, right,” he laughed, a little pitched as he scratched the back of his neck. It was easy to tell the man was restless, scared even, preoccupied enough not to even notice Keith’s hair or register the painful cold that settled into their bones and stayed. “So where was I? Ice-cream, ice-crea—yeah, driving! Stars! So like, I knew what you liked, and after we talked about space ages ago, I felt like total shit and my heart kinda hurt, you know? Ah shit, I’m making this about me—”

Lance sounded more like a child than a grown man, and Keith couldn’t help the fond smile that stitched itself into his expression by default, watching tan fingers push tan hair back as Lance finally stopped his pacing to breathe. Blue met grey, “It’s not about me, okay? Tonight’s all about you, mami, and only you, okay? So yeah. I realized, well _shit_ . I needed to do something for you that blew everything else out of the water—you already put so much into this damn relationship, so I thought there was no fuckin’ way I was going to let you one up me—”

“You’re shivering, Lance.” Keith crossed his arms, amused. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

Lance hushed him, “Let me do my dramatic reveal before I start gross sobbing, Keith!”

Keith raised two silent palms in surrender, gesturing towards the unidentified mass.

Lance shook and Keith couldn’t tell whether it was because he was nervous or freezing; he didn’t think it really mattered, because when those eyes settled on him, raw and vulnerable, Keith felt emotion slam into his lungs, mind painting Lance in colors he’d never experienced before. Only then did it really register, did realization hit as his smile dropped, that this was all for _him_ . Lance had been gone for hours and months and meals for this moment right then and there. He’d worked a year for whatever he hid under that ratty material.

And whatever he hid was _Keith’s_.

“I knew I couldn’t give you space,” Lance’s voice was smaller than he’d ever heard it, caged in the attic of his throat, pressed into the back of trembling teeth. Keith felt trepidation sink stone after stone into his stomach, eyes following slender fingers as they tied into the fabric, tugging, _decisive_ —and when it fell to asphalt, the sheet - thick and dense and knotted - it fell in sync with the throb in Keith’s chest and the weak hush of Lance’s words.

“—so I hoped you might settle for the sky instead.”

Keith’s voice was a mosaic of dry sounds.

There was a moment of silence where neither of them dared shifting a limb, Lance’s words still ricocheting off the painted exterior of an honest-to-fuck hovercraft, bouncing into the air between them and the empty spaces that suddenly occupied Keith’s mind. Maybe it was confusion that hit him first, throbbing like bass in his chest, knocking the wind out of him—or maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was Lance.  
  
Swallowing, Keith let his eyes follow the lines of white-gold panelling, the gentle sweep of its nozzle and the pressed roundness of two tilted thrust-fans. The red accents seemed to vibrate against the pale body, the LED’s lit and internal, pressing carmine light tightly against the alloy.

He knew this model.

“ _V-Sico._ ” Keith breathed its name, his voice a little raw from how hard he’d clenched his throat.  “This—where’d you—”

“I—uh, didn’t.” Lance’s voice had his eyes swing back to meet lidded blue. The nervousness had returned, sculpted into Lance’s posture, the way he scratched the back of his neck and worried the corner of his lips. “I mean—like, it’s not the exact same, or anything, ‘cause, like, they don’t make these anymore, right?”

Keith mutely shook his head, his mind dying to turn back to the bike, wanting to reach out and listen to the snarl of its engine against his open palm—but his weary spirit wanted to do nothing more than stare at Lance with that stupid expression that undoubtedly fixed itself across his face. It seemed to encourage the other enough to smile, though, and Keith guessed the sacrifice was worth the way Lance shifted.

“I,” he paused, looking at a stricken Keith with something of amusement. Lance grinned, gradual and sweet, before moving forward towards the saddle, grabbing that sketchbook that messed with Keith’s mind on more than one occasion, before bounding to Keith’s stock-still form. The piece was worn, destroyed around the edges and rebound with tape along the spine, key scratches and pencil marks etched into the black exterior. Albeit slowly, Keith’s eyes fell from the excitement on Lance’s face to the book itself.

“So, like, I had to do some _major_ dumpster diving for parts and catalogues, okay,” Lance laughed, opening the sketchbook up, flicking through the pages without proper abandon, ignoring the bits that fell out— _numbers, codes, colors, sketches_ . He stopped when an aged centerfold fell open, large and old and incredibly easy to recognize, torn from a techmag. Keith hadn’t noticed how close they were until Lance’s words were breathed against his shock-stricken face. “I, well, I remembered you talkin’ a ton about Sico in general, yeah? And, well, I thought this model—”

He pointed down at the centerfold, the image similar to the body that stood a meter or two from them, only it had bright teal accents, hailed a hood and a cockpit. Keith knew the model, of course—after all, he’d hung a fucking _poster_ of the brand-line on his wall nearly a decade ago.

“—looked pretty cool, right? So, I got Hunk to help me and shit—with the blueprints and stuff, ‘cause, well, I didn’t know what to do! Made use of those Altean communicators, ha, finally, amirite or _amirite_ ?” Keith did nothing but stare at Lance, who laughed nervously, avoiding Keith’s round gaze. “I mean it obviously isn’t the same _same_ , I didn’t know how to add the umbrella thing? Also building an ensuite cabin is hard. I thought since you were super into your dad’s ancient-ass bike, maybe you’d be fine with handles and a leather seat instead? Fuck—you probably know a ton more about this crap, don’t hate it, okay? ‘Cause I—”

Slowly, Keith pressed a gentle hand over Lance’s mouth.

Keith had seen his fair share of strange things - because being in space tended to do that to a person - but nothing, he could argue, was stranger than seeing Lance sapped of his confidence, smiling in a way that was a little too endearing and self-conscious. Lance, who boasted all the time and wore his vanity like a handbag, was rambling, and Keith knew why. He turned his gaze back to the hoverbike, noting how the alloy was painted over, how Lance had attempted to flatten the colors of mismatched spare parts. It was, despite the rookie twists, fucking beautiful.

The only thing he was able to muster was a small, breathed, “you _built_ this.”

_For me._

Lance, looking more nervous than Hunk back in their heyday, blinked and nodded under the weight of Keith’s palm.

Keith turned to him, wide-eyed and stupid, “Lance, you _made_ this.”

He got another hesitant nod in response. Keith let his arm drop in both delayed shock and at the feel of Lance’s moving lips. He started talking immediately after, “—I mean, like, I got Hunk to help me. A lot. I didn’t know shit about this, you know? It should’ve taken less time and stuff, and Hunk threw over all the blueprints and the technical building instructions but—Keith, can you, like, check on things too? Before you get on? I’m not the best with machines, and I don’t want you to get hu—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Keith hissed, snapping Lance out of his rambling with two firm palms against his cheeks, tan skin dewy under the pads of his fingers, “shut the _fuck_ up and let me kiss you.”

Lance’s evergreen smile lit up the void parking lot, relieved and exhausted and scenic, “You’ve got a way with words.”

Keith leant in, refusing to turn this moment into a joke, and kissed Lance’s smile with his own.

 

* * *

 

It had taken roughly a week before Keith allowed either of them to get on, eliminating every possible go-wrong he could from overheating engines to stuttering fans. Lance had done a stellar job at putting it together, and given how he normally was with circuits and machines—not very good, that was—Keith was beyond impressed. He hadn’t even needed to fix much at all. All that hardly mattered, though, when they spent their days laughing in an empty parking lot, covered in grease and paint and other unmentionables.

It was fun.

It was the most fun Keith had had in a long time, and as cliche as he knew it was, Lance was the reason. Lance, who ruined a year and destroyed half of Allura’s _terran_ account just to make something for him; Lance who grinned at him after saying something exceptionally stupid; Lance this, Lance that. Keith, as head over ass as he was, was no where near idiotic enough to tell Lance any of that. The man’s ego was a force to be reckoned with, that was for fucking certain.

Keith smiled to himself, wiping the last smudge of tar from the frame.

The loneliness was worth the days they spent fixing little things, the process taking far longer than it actually should, given their propensity for teasing one another. Keith didn’t think either of them really minded—they weren’t in a rush for anything, and for once, he felt like he had all the time in the world.

That wasn’t a feeling he was used to having—in fact, he never thought there would come a day where he’d feel like this, like days were endless in the best of ways. It was hard to, after all, when you were fighting for your life in oblivion. That casual air, the relaxed nature of Lance resting his back against the hovercraft with a saturated sunrise dying his backdrop, wasn’t a common sight, either. Appreciated, though.

“So, you figure we can fly this thing soon?” Lance mused, looking back with his arms crossed. “I can’t wait.”

Keith looked up at him, tracing the fine lines of his calmness. He smirked, “You’ve always had a thing for this type of stuff, huh.”

Eyes flicked to him, quick and sharp and mock-offended. “What?”

“You.” Keith repeated, “You’ve always had a thing for riding on the back of bikes and shit. Speed a kink of yours I should take into account? You an in-closet speed junkie?”

Lance played along, winking. “Only when you’re driving.”

Keith chuckled, unwilling to keep it up for longer now that Lance has his footing. Flirting was definitely not his thing—sure, teasing was fun every once in awhile, but it wasn’t the same when Lance purred back. It didn’t bring that same satisfaction as catching him off guard. “You’re the worst.”

“Me?” Lance pointed two fingers to his profile, “Never. Not with a face like this.”

“Ah,” Keith folded the rag with a smile, before dropping it into the open duffle-bag resting by his foot, gaping with wrecked notes and overworked tools. “Don’t drown yourself, Narcissus.”

“You calling me arrogant, Kogane?”

“That’s exactly what I’m calling you, actually. Good job.”

Lance squawked, reaching forward in an attempt to ruffle what remained of Keith’s hair—if the other hadn’t dodged him, too practiced in avoiding it. “Well, I have the right to be—I’m an all-round good looking guy! You, on the other hand, lost half your head, babe.”

“All I did was get a haircut,” Keith muttered, knowing where this conversation was going. “Shut up about it.”

Lance stared at him incredulously, an open mouthed smile on his face. “Are you _kidding_ me? Keith, you’re three pounds lighter and twelve times edgier because of this haircut. I’ll forever mourn the mullet.”

Keith rested his forehead against the cool alloy of the hovercraft. This was what it was like ever since Lance had come down from his adrenaline high for long enough to recognize the changes in Keith’s appearance. The initial reaction had been a slow gape, followed by a shriek of ‘ _what did you do_ ’ and a myriad of different sobbing noises. For someone who’s avidly claimed to hate his hairstyle for years without fail, Lance seemed plenty attached. Keith had just stared back at him with a fixed deadpan until the diva breakdown cooled off.

That hadn’t stopped the week-long commentary, though.

It had been a long, _long_ seven days, in Keith’s opinion.

“I didn’t even have a mullet at that point, you dick,” he huffed back, listening to Lance’s chiming laugh. _This asshole will never let up._

“It suits the twenty-first century biker aesthetic, darling!” The words were smuggled past loud cackles, “You’re a hundred years late to the party, but you’re hot, so it’s fine! I’m willing to cut myself on all that edge, true love, really.”

“Eat glue, asshole.” Keith leant down, zipping up the bag before tossing it over his shoulder; the sooner he was out of the cold and away from Lance’s teasing, the better. “I don’t know why I deal with you voluntarily.”

Pushing himself off the frame, Lance sauntered forward, the two or three steps between them gone at the toe of his sneakers. Keith held his poker face even when two long arms braided around his neck, narrow wrists pressing against his nape. “Because you love me, Kogane.”

“What a tragedy.” He said, not missing a beat.

Lance laughed, a sound that seemed to mold perfectly into their surroundings, gentle and purred. Keith let the string of chuckles fill the empty space between them, his hands dropping to cup the keen jut of Lance’s hipbones. The evening got colder the longer they stood there, silent and unswaying, the sky getting darker to the beat of each passing minute. Keith couldn’t say he minded it—this was nice. The calm was the nicest type of atmosphere, and the mood persisted even while they stood next to a handmade craft in torn jeans and stained sweaters.

There was only one place, he knew, that could out-do Lance’s shitty parking lot; a place in the desert that Keith refused to visit, or mention, or touch in the metaphorical and literal senses.

It was like his hair—something that belonged to an age that wasn’t his anymore.

Keith found himself biting his lip, watching Lance tip his head back, eyes closed. _Gods_ , it had been so long since he thought of that place. A little too long, maybe. He tended to erase small keystones from memory, but the issue was the desert shack is, and always will be, _a keystone._ It saw everything about him, from desperation and failure to the happiness he felt in finding Shiro. It was the only thing that would ground him, it had to be.

Seeing it—that would fuel his drive. _It has to_.

_I need to—I—_

_I need to go home._

Lance dropped his head into the crook of Keith’s neck, elbows folding between them.

“So,” he started, the syllable breathed against the break of Keith’s jaw. “We gonna fly this thing or what?”

Keith couldn’t help the small, amused scoff that left him. Of course they were going to fly it—fuck, that was the highlight of his earth-bound tedium.

“Well,” Keith bit his lips inward, his body focusing on the feel of Lance’s wrists pressed against his nape, his mind thinking of open spaces and sand, “only if I get to take you some place afterwards.”

 

* * *

 

 It felt like flying.

Later on, when Keith would hum the expression into Lance’s ear and promptly get made fun of— _‘I think that’s the whole point of being midair on a hoverbike, doll-face_ ’—he would still hold onto the expression with sharp teeth and blunt nails.

Because flying is what it felt like, and Keith wasn’t an idiot, he knew he was miles above ground quite literally, tucked between hollow clouds and cold winter air. The flying he was referring to was a little different—he was talking about himself.

The weightlessness of his own body, the thighs pressed into his torso serving as both anchors and wings. It was different.

The lions had been massive, a colorful set of technological architecture that made him _see_ space but not _feel_ it. This— _this_ —was feeling the sky. He felt it breathe into his hair, braid into his clothes and roll under the steady hold he had on the handlebars. Much like everything else in his life, Keith took to the skies without abandon. He curved and swayed and listened to the gentle snarl of the engine that complemented Lance’s strung curses.

The night had gotten a lot darker by the time they had gone to change into clean, warm clothes, too excited to bother showering. Lance had all but dragged him outside, and Keith couldn’t really say he fought the enthusiasm; he was pretty pumped himself. He hadn’t flown anything in over a year, and despite missing Voltron dearly, there was something different about hover bikes. Maybe it was his own situational nostalgia. Keith didn’t let himself dwell on the thought for long, writing it off.

 Instead, he’d grinned, straddled leather, and locked ankles with Lance.

The engine ran beautifully, and Keith couldn’t help but marvel at the handiwork, worshipping the smooth controls and how the frame leaned without tossing. For someone so mechanically inept, Lance had really outdone himself, refining a machine like this to its finest was no easy task. Keith almost couldn’t believe that he was miles high with that very person, flying over the lines of a windswept desert. He grinned to himself, revving the engine a little tighter just to feel two fists clench even further into his shirt, and long arms slide elbow-deep under his jacket.

“If you pull a titanic and crash this thing first trip, I’ll kill you dead, Kogane!”

Keith laughed, leaning his head away from Lance’s hissing, breath pricking his ears. “If you’re not dead, too, I give you full liberty to maul my corpse!”

He savored Lance’s indignant squawk when he sped up further, taking a sharp dip off a cliff; Lance’s words were almost— _almost_ —lost in the wind, before Keith rolled his wrist and evened them parallel to the ground.  
  
“You asshole, that wasn’t an invitation!”

“Don’t be boring!”

“I’m _boring_ and _normal_ and it’s _wonderful_ !” Lance sung, sounding equal parts amused and hysterical. It was a lot harder being air-bound without armor or proper belts or _a massive lion_ keeping them safe from prospective impact, so Keith figured he wouldn’t shame Lance (much, anyway) for pressing into his back, tight and warm with worry. “I’d very much like to stay boring, breathing, and normal! I don’t deserve this, you know, I pay taxes—”

“That’s such bullshit!”

Keith cackled, louder than he normally would. It was almost like it was in order, like that freedom was both present and well earned enough for him to let loose, to enjoy the trembling laughter he felt reverberate from Lance’s chest, thrumming against his shoulders. Both of them had nothing to lose, and despite Lance’s unyielding set of complaints, Keith knew he was enjoying this as well.

Hell, Keith figured Lance might be enjoying this more than him.

He wasn’t about to say he forgot all about what they went through, or that the past few months felt like nothing now that they were carefree for half a moment—because it wasn’t true. Bending the air was a breath of something else, sure, but how long it had taken to see eye to eye was tucked in and heavy at the forefront of Keith’s mind. He would make sure it always stayed that way.

He was the worst type of forgetful, after all; the type who forgot nothing at all.

The ride continued in similar vein, although Lance’s yells had quieted to brief mumbles of wonder as soon as they reached the span of open desert. It brought back memories, Keith supposed, of when he’d flown his own shitty bike across a similar path. This one may have had a little more horsepower, more sleek and compact, but Keith knew that each individual craft tasted different when you were a hundred meters skybound, straddling leather.

Lance made fun of him when he voiced that, too.

Soon enough, when the drops had folded into open space, Keith found a steady direction closer to the ground, cruising after his speed-high faded into serenity.

“This is nice.” Lance spoke after a while.

Keith hummed back, an affirmative of shared sentiments or something similar. He felt Lance ease away, letting go of his torso in favor of leaning back, palms pressed between them with his head tilted upward. There was a bittersweet feeling that came with the action.

“You know, when we came back, everyone assumed we were dead.”

“I know,” Keith replied, void of bias. “I know they did.”

“We almost got used to it, too.” Lance mused, his breathing steady in the night air. “My family got used to it. In that morbid _we already mourned once_ way—”

“Lance—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” he laughed, and Keith’s worry faded slightly at the tone. “I don’t think I mind anymore.”

Keith was silent, eyes focusing a little harder on a silver desert.

“It’s hard to come back from that kind of conditioning, and besides,” Keith felt tender fingers run through his hair from behind, thumb pressing into the space behind his ear in a reassuring stroke. He could almost imagine the small, sated smile Lance’s mouth must have molded into, “We found something good, right?”

Keith leant into the touch with an unmodulated hum. They had, even if it took tooth and nail.

“There’s also the whole option of stealing a garrison craft and bailing—no shame, no shame!”  
  
Keith grinned, chancing a look back at him, “I thought the garrison shut down, according to your shit-dumb theories?”

Lance gave a half shrug, “You never know what's out there, man!”

They, of all people, knew that better than anyone.

But Keith humored the comment for all of forty seconds, realizing that although it was a joke, it was Lance’s way of telling him that he had an out if he ever wanted one. Then, Keith thought about himself for all of twenty seconds, how space had given him more physical scars than Lance in close-range combat, how he’d met a person for each one of those numerous cuts. He couldn’t bring himself to regret going—but for once, with the humming engine tucked between his thighs, Keith figured it wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer.

The minute ended.

“I know we’re not fine, Keith.” Lance broke the silence with a sigh. “But I really hope we get there fast.”

At the sight of a wrecked shack drawn into the horizon, Keith spoke, the smile in his voice tearing into his words. “I think we’re about a kilometer or two away from fine, if you want to be technical about it.”

“Uh, you wanna run that by me again?”

Keith grinned and revved up the engine.

 _We_ —he weighed the words in mind, fighting the urge to look back at Lance when the other clung to him once more— _we'll be fine_.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was a ride. hope you liked it though ;) 
> 
> (p.s. trivia time: the hovercraft mentioned here is actually in the show - i stole it from a poster on keith's wall in the shack lol lance isnt the only one who did some dumpster diving)
> 
> comment for that hopeful ending? yes? no??
> 
> 'til next time, stay fresh, jam jars
> 
> tumblr: [@venpast](http://venpast.tumblr.com/)


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